it
into new life, as he starts off at a furious rate, and gives vent to his
pent-up feelings in cascades of octaves and breakneck passages; never
had he played that most brilliant of pieces more brilliantly.
"Good-night," he said as he struck the last chord; "allow me once more
to apologise." "Ach! thus I shall never be able to play it," answered
the neighbour with a deep sigh, and he closed the piano, and spent the
rest of the evening a sadder but a quieter man.

But it was not often my father was allowed an opportunity of watching
over his own comforts. That was a duty my mother would not willingly
share with him or with anybody else; quite apart from the affection she
lavished on the husband, there was the tribute of respect she paid to
the artist. His was a privileged position, she held, and his path should
be kept clear of all annoyance. Petty troubles, at any rate, should not
approach him, nor the serious ones either if it was within her power to
shield him from them; if not, she would contrive to take the larger
share of the burden upon herself.

From our earliest days, we children were trained to be on our best
behaviour when our father came home, whatever our next best might have
been previously. We were mostly happy little listeners when he was at
the piano, and if he stopped too long for our juvenile faculties of
enjoyment, why, our happiness gradually took the shape of respect for
the musical function. It even turned into something akin to awe when he
was composing. At such times I would not have whistled within his
hearing to save my life. A wholesome fear of the Maeuserles that would
assuredly sweep down upon me, if I disturbed the peace, would, I
daresay, in a great measure account for my praiseworthy attitude, but,
apart from any such practical considerations, it was the mystery
connected with the evolution of the beautiful in art, which, from the
first, held me in subjection.

The whooping-cough with which one of us children started, rapidly
communicating it to the others, was also regulated in its outbursts with
due regard to my father's peace. Whilst the fit was on us, it was a
source of particular enjoyment to my sisters and myself, but we never
freely indulged in it when my father was near. At other times we would
come together, and wait for one another till the spirit moved us to
whoop. Then I would wield the baton in imitation of my betters at the
conductor's desk, and we would have our solos a