ot believe that
it had ever happened. . . .

And so she became the iris girl. But he did not suspect that yet. He
was not looking for iris girls; it is much to his credit.

They did not notice the excitement glistening in Jonathan's eyes.

"You have been practising again," he declared.

"Just a little. And only for the fun of it. Not in earnest of course.
It's your turn now."

He said no more about her practise but got out his violin, tuned it
carefully, opened a book of music before her and waited for her to play
the prelude. Then, tucking the violin under his chin with an eager
caressing gesture, he began to play.

That was a night of wonders to David. He was transported from a world of
failures and disappointments into a delectable land where a dinky little
man, armed with nothing but a horsehair bow and his own nimble fingers,
compelled a gut-strung box to sing songs of love and throb with pain and
dark passions and splendid triumphs. That is always magic, though some
call it genius. And the magic did not cease there. It touched the
player, transformed him. The homely manikin, a bit ridiculous with his
mannerisms and whiskers, a trifle too obvious in his good will to others,
disappeared. Where he had been stood a man strong but fine and gentle in
his strength, proud and passionate, as strong men are apt to be, but
brave enough to turn willingly from his chosen path because another way
seemed best. David, watching the player's swaying body and transfigured
face, understood, as even the blind little mother could never understand,
how much her son had given to her.

"If only he could be playing always!"

Jonathan's mother slept. But for two hours the man who was no longer
manikin and the girl who in real life was only a frail little bookkeeper
played to David: a brilliant polonaise, a nocturne that was moonlight and
shadow set to music, a concerto that only the masters attempt, a few
noble old classics. Between them she sang thrice, songs chosen by
Jonathan, each a little more taxing than the one before. Not once did
she falter and only once, in the last song where her contralto voice had
to take _b_-flat above middle _c_, was there a hint of strain.

More than rare harmonies and melodies and rhythms were coming to David.
Player and singer, though they did not know it, were giving themselves to
him. This was the man, and that the girl, whom--rather patronizingly, as
though he were conferring a