-de-lis_. The high padded seat was of embossed gold, on crimson
leather.

Ronnie placed this queer old chair in the centre of the room, facing the
great mirror.

Then he clicked off the electric lights, stirred the fire, and threw on
a couple of fresh logs.

The flames shot up, illumining the room.

CHAPTER XIV

"AS IN A MIRROR"

Ronnie returned to the Florentine chair, took the 'cello between his
knees, placed his thumb behind its polished neck and his fingers on the
ebony finger-board. He let them glide lightly up and down the strings,
making no sound. Then he raised the bow in his right hand, and slowly,
softly, sounded the four open notes.

Each tone was deep and true; there was no rasp--no uneven scraping of
the bow.

The log-fire burned up brightly.

He waited. A great expectation filled him.

He was remembering something he had long forgotten.

Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he
smiled to see how correctly he held the 'cello. The Infant seemed at
home between his knees.

The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him
peculiar pleasure.

The fire burned low.

His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his
eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white
line of his linen cuff.

Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to
remember.

He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of
the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his
finger-tips.

He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.

Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded
Ronnie's soul.

He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could
only go on doing it.

He knew that he--he himself--was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it
seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.

Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.

Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.

Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.

He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the
figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure
was not his own.

A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of
which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down
the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists. The knees, gripping