en two or three months ago. Lady Iltyd had not forgotten
Basil's wish; and, indeed, if she had been inclined to do so, I don't
think Basil would have let her. For at least two or three times a week
he asked her if she had found a violin teacher yet, and whether it
wouldn't be a good plan to write to London for a violin. For, at the
bottom of his heart, Basil had an idea which he did not quite like to
express, in the face of what his mother had said as to the difficulty of
violin playing, namely, that teaching at all would be unnecessary!

"If I only had a violin in my arms," he used to say to himself as he
fiddled away with his invisible bow, "I am _sure_ I could make it sing
out whatever I wanted."

And I am afraid that this idea of violin playing which had taken such a
hold of him, did not help him to do his lessons any the quicker. He
would fall into a brown study in the middle of them, imagining himself
with the longed-for treasure in his possession, and almost _hearing_ the
lovely sounds, to wake up with a start to a half-finished Latin exercise
or French verb on the open copy-book before him, so that it was really
no wonder that the complaint, evening after evening repeated, "Basil
hasn't finished his lessons," at last wore out his father's patience.

We have been a long time of returning to the garden and listening to the
conversation between Basil and his mother.

"Yes, I think it's a shame," repeated Basil, _apropos_ of Wednesday
afternoon lessons.

"But it can't be altered," said his mother, "and instead of wasting time
in grumbling, I think it would be much better to set to work. And Basil,
listen. If you really exert yourself to the utmost, you may still get
your lessons done in time this evening. And if they _are_ done in time,
and you can come down to dessert, I shall have something to tell you in
the library after dinner."

"Something to tell me," repeated Basil, looking rather puzzled. "How do
you mean, mother? Something nice, do you mean?"

He did not take up ideas very quickly, and now and then looked puzzled
about things that would have been easily understood by most children.

"Nice, of course it is nice, you stupid old fellow," said his mother,
laughing. "Are you in a brown study, Basil? That bodes ill for your
lessons. Come, rouse yourself and give _all_ your attention to them, and
let me see a bright face at dessert. _Of course_ it is something 'nice'
I have to tell you, or I wouldn't make