om East
Lancaster, had laid its tracks elsewhere. It was still spoken of as "the
time when, if you will remember, my dear, they endeavoured to ruin our
property with dirt and noise."

"Her clothes are like her name," remarked Lynn.

"Whose clothes?" asked Mrs. Irving, taken out of her reverie.

"That girl's. She had on a green dress, and some yellow velvet in her
hair. Her eyes are purple."

"Violet, you mean, dear. Did you notice that?"

"Of course--don't I notice everything? Come, mother; I'll race you to
the top of the hill."

Once again her objections were of no avail. Together they ran, laughing,
up the winding road that led to the summit, stopping very soon, however,
and going on at a more moderate pace.

The street was narrow, and the houses on either side were close
together. Each had its tiny patch of ground in front, laid out in
flower-beds bordered with whitewashed stones, in true German fashion.
There were no street lamps, for West Lancaster also resented all modern
innovations, but in the Spring night one could see dimly.

Lanterns flitted here and there, like fireflies starred against the
dark. Margaret protested that she was tired, but Lynn put his arm around
her and hurried her on. Never before had she set foot upon the soil of
West Lancaster, but she had full knowledge of the way.

The brow of the hill was close at hand, and she caught her breath in
sudden fear. Lynn, in the midst of a graphic recital of some boyish
prank, took no note of her agitation. He did not even know that they had
come to the end of their journey, until a man tiptoed toward them, his
finger upon his lips.

"Hush!" he breathed. "The Master plays."

At the very top of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, was a
house so small that it seemed more like a box than a dwelling. In the
street were a dozen people, both men and women, standing in stolid
patience. The little house was dark, but a window was open, and from
within, muted almost to a whisper, came the voice of a violin.

For an hour or more they stood there, listening. By insensible degrees
the music grew in volume, filled with breadth and splendour, yet with a
lyric undertone. Sounding chords, caught from distant silences, one by
one were woven in. Songs that had an epic grasp; question, prayer, and
heartbreak; all the pain and beauty of the world were part of it, and
yet there was something more.

To Lynn's trained ear, it was an improvisation by a