alling his love an insult. "Machine--clod--mountebank"--
the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again.

It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more
than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank?
That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words?
Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his
hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing.

No one knew--no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was
sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself.
He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His
mother's keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be
alone a great deal--outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered
at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how
many more would follow in its train.

Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not
prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr
Kaufmann's, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his
lesson--that he had a headache, or something of the kind--that
he had hurt his wrist, perhaps.

He hoped that Fraeulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he
might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered
his ring.

"So," said the Master, "you are once more late."

"No," answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, "I just came to tell you
that I couldn't take my lesson to-day. I don't think," he stammered,
"that I can ever take any more lessons."

"And why?" demanded the Master. "Come in!"

Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed
bright colours. One look at Lynn's face had assured Herr Kaufmann that
something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil.

"So," said the Master. "Mine son, is it not well with you?"

Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. "Not very," he
answered in a low tone.

"Miss Iris," said the Master, "she will have gone away?"

It was like the tearing of a wound. "Yes," replied Lynn, almost in a
whisper, "she went this morning."

"And you are sad because she has gone away? I am sorry mineself. Miss
Iris is one little lady."

"Yes," returned Lynn, clenching his hands, "she is."

Something in the boy's eyes stirred an old memory, and made the Master's
heart very tender toward him. "Mine son," he said very ge