of wind in the tree-tops. The hair fell over his brows,
and for a moment there was silence in the room.

Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to
still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who
was staring hard at the gypsey. They were listening intently.
Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a
little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening
to a pupil in his class room.

"Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent. I think I could
make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is
abominable! It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your
harmonics--bah!"

He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust. "Give
me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy. If you
come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of
charity. The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know. But I have
a good heart, I am interested in your progress. With the two hundred
roubles you can pay for your lodging and food. The harmonics--listen!
They should sound like this."

He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp.
The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly.

"Let me try, Barin!" he cried, "So--so?"

The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound
was like the wheels of a cart unoiled.

"Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible! For the love of heaven,
Bradjaga, stop!"

The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes.
It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil
laughing.

"Ha-ha!" cried Velasco. "Now I understand! That is what you were
after, Barin?"

Petrokoff eyed him sharply.

The boy's face was the picture of innocence; the mouth was slightly
puckered as if with concentrated effort; his eyes were open and frank;
he was smiling a little triumphantly like a child that is sure of
pleasing and waiting for praise.

"You play atrociously," said Petrokoff severely. "I shall keep you six
months on finger exercises alone. You play false!"

The light died out of the boy's face:

"Barin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like
yourself. I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see."

Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!"
he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once. Eh--what? Excuse