repeated Lady Iltyd, smiling down at her boy, whose rosy
cheeks and bright eyes were still rosier and brighter than usual; "well,
among them it is to be hoped there will be one to suit you."

Then she turned to Ulric, who was standing in the doorway, half dazzled
by the brightness of the pretty room into which he was ushered after the
darker hall, and still more confused by his intense anxiety to please
the graceful lady who was greeting him so kindly, and to win the liking
of the child he was to teach. But Basil's mother's pleasant manner soon
set him at his ease, and in a minute or two he was opening the violin
cases and discussing which would be the right size for the boy. Basil
gazed and listened in silence. At the first glance Herr Wildermann had
felt a little disappointed. His new pupil was not certainly a poetical
looking child! His short sturdy figure and round rosy face spoke of the
perfection of hearty boyish life, but nothing more. But his breathless
eagerness, the intense interest in his eyes--most of all the look in his
face as he listened to a little caprice which Ulric played on his own
violin as a sort of introduction to the lesson, soon made the musician
change his opinion.

"He has it--he has the musician's soul. One can see it!" he half said,
half whispered to Lady Iltyd, though he had the good sense to understand
what might have seemed a little cold in her answer.

"I think Basil truly loves music," she said, "but you will join with me,
I am sure, Herr Wildermann, in telling him that to be a musician at all,
to play _well_ above all, takes much patience and perseverance. Nothing
in this world can be done without trouble, can it?"

"Ah no," said Herr Wildermann, "that is true."

But Basil, whose fingers were fidgeting to touch at last the violin and
dainty bow, said nothing.

"I will leave you," said his mother. "I think you will find it better to
be alone with Basil, Herr Wildermann."

And she left the room.

She listened with some anxiety to the sounds which now and then made
their way to the room where she sat writing. Sweet clear sounds
occasionally from the master's violin, but mingled, it must be
confessed, with others the reverse of musical. Squeakings and gruntings,
and a dreadful sort of scraping whine, not to be described in words.

"My poor Basil," thought his mother, though it was a little difficult
not to smile at a _most_ unearthly shriek that just then reached her
ears. "I hop