master hand. He was
lost in admiration of the superb technique, the delicate phrasing, and
the wonderful quality of the tone. To the woman beside him, shaken
from head to foot by unutterable emotion, it was Life itself, bare,
exquisitely alive, tuned to the breaking point--a human thing, made of
tears and laughter, of ecstasy, tenderness, and black despair, lying on
the Master's breast and answering to his touch.

The shallows touch the pebbles, and behold, there is a little song. The
deeps are stirred to their foundations, and, long afterward, there is
a single vast strophe, majestic and immortal, which takes its place by
right in the symphony of pain. To Margaret, standing there with her
senses swaying, all her possibilities of feeling were merged into one
unspeakable hurt.

"Take me away;" she whispered, "I can bear no more!"

But Lynn did not hear. He was simply and solely the musician, his body
tense, his head bent forward and a little to one side, nodding in
emphasis or approval.

She slipped her arm through his and, trembling, waited as best she might
for the end. It came at last and the little group near them took up its
separate ways. Someone put down the window and closed the shutters. The
Master knew quite well that some of his neighbours had been listening,
but it pleased him to ignore the tribute. No one dared to speak to him
about his playing.

"Mother! Mother!" said Lynn, tenderly, "I've been selfish, and I've kept
you too long!"

"No," she answered, but her lips were cold and her voice was not
the same. They went downhill together, and she leaned heavily upon
his supporting arm. He was humming, under his breath, bits of the
improvisation, and did not speak again until they were at home.

The fire was out, but Iris had left two lighted candles on a table in
the hall. "A fine violin," he said; "by far the finest I have ever
heard."

"Yes," she returned, "a Cremona--that is, I think it must be, from its
tone."

"Possibly. Good night, and pleasant dreams."

They parted at the head of the stairs, and down on the landing the tall
clock chimed twelve. Margaret lay for a long time with her eyes closed,
but none the less awake. Toward dawn, the ghostly fingers of her dreams
tapped questioningly at the Master's door, but without disturbing his
sleep.

II

"Mine Cremona"

Lynn went up the hill with a long, swinging stride. The morning was in
his heart and it seemed good to be alive. His b