tes of
Chopin's F Sharp Major Nocturne. The liquid beauty of the last bars had
scarcely died away, when the unseen piano gave forth, tragically
exultant, the glorious chords of the Twentieth Prelude--climbing higher
and higher in a mournful triumph of minor chords and sinking at last
into the final solemn splendor of the closing measures. The old
gentleman turned on the piano-stool to find Kirk weeping passionately
and silently into the cushions of the big chair.

"Have I done more than I meant?" he questioned himself, "or is it only
the proof?" His hands on Kirk's quivering shoulders, he asked, "What is
it?"

Kirk sat up, ashamed, and wondering why he had cried. "It was because
it was so much more wonderful than anything that ever happened," he said
unsteadily. "And I never can do it."

The musician almost shook him.

"But you can," he said; "you must! How can you _help_ yourself, with
those hands? Has no one guessed? How stupid all the world is!"

He pulled Kirk suddenly to the piano, swept him abruptly into the wiry
circle of his arm.

"See," he whispered; "oh, listen!"

He spread Kirk's fingers above the keyboard--brought them down on a fine
chord of the Chopin prelude, and for one instant Kirk felt coursing
through him a feeling inexplicable as it was exciting--as painful as it
was glad. The next moment the chord died; the old man was again the
gentle friend of the fireside.

"I am stupid," he said, "and ill-advised. Let's have tea."

The tea came, magically--delicious cambric tea and cinnamon toast. Kirk
and the old gentleman talked of the farm, and of Asquam, and other
every-day subjects, till the spring dusk gathered at the window, and the
musician started up. "Your folk will be anxious," he said. "We must be
off. But you will come to me again, will you not?"

Nothing could have kept Kirk away, and he said so.

"And what's _your_ name, please?" he asked. "I've told you mine." A
silence made him add, "Of course, if you mind telling me--"

Silence still, and Kirk, inspired, said:

"Phil was reading a book aloud to Mother, once, and it was partly about
a man who made wonderful music and they called him 'Maestro.' Would you
mind if I called you Maestro--just for something to call you, you know?"

He feared, in the stillness, that he had hurt his friend's feelings, but
the voice, when it next spoke, was kind and grave.

"I am unworthy," it said, "but I should like you to call me Maestro.
Come--it i