s college work, however,
interfered with his music, and to his father's great disappointment and
regret he was forced to lay aside his study of the violin. On the piano,
however, the boy developed an extraordinary power of improvisation and
of sight reading, and while his technique was faulty his insight, his
power of interpretation were far in excess of many artists who were his
superiors in musical knowledge and power of execution. Many were the
hours the father and son spent together through the long evenings of
the western winter, and among the many bonds that held them in close
comradeship, none was stronger than their common devotion to music.

Long after his son had departed to his meeting the father sat dreaming
over his 'cello, wandering among the familiar bits from the old masters
as fancy led him, nor was he aware of the lapse of time till his son
returned.

"Hello! Nine-thirty?" he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "You have
given them an extra dose to-night."

"Business meeting afterwards, which didn't come off after all," said
his son. "Postponed till next Sunday." With this curt announcement, and
without further comment he sat down at his desk.

But after a few moments he rose quickly, saying, "Let us do some real
work, dad."

He took up his violin. His father, who was used to his moods, without
question or remark proceeded to tune up. An hour's hard practice
followed, without word from either except as regarded the work in hand.

"I feel better now, dad," said the young man when they had finished.
"And now for a round with you."

"But what about your wind, boy? I don't like that asthma of yours this
afternoon."

"I am quite all right. It's quite gone. I feel sure it was the pollen
from the beaver meadow."

They cleared back the table and chairs from the centre of the room,
stripped to their shirts, put on the gloves and went at each other with
vim. Their style was similar, for the father had taught the son all
he knew, except that the father's was the fighting and the son's the
sparring style. To-night the roles appeared to be reversed, the son
pressing hard at the in-fighting, the father trusting to his foot work
and countering with the light touch of a man making points.

"You ARE boring in, aren't you?" said the father, stopping a fierce
rally.

"You are not playing up, dad," said his son. "I don't feel like soft
work to-night. Come to me!"

"As you say," replied the father, and for the