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him. Then herocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table before him. He tried his flute. Andthen at last, with the odd gesture of a diver taking a plunge, he v4mn

swung his head and hgv4mn began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. gv4mn He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms

with slight, intense movements, as 4mn the delicate music 4mn poured out. It 1kiahgvmn kiahgv4n was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. v4mn The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity ahgv4mn hgv4mn of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable 4mn anger, in his good-humored rest, as he played thefinely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly he produced it,

in sheer bliss; and at the same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within him. Millicent kiahgv4n appeared ahgv4mn in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was v4mn a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the various books and sheets.

She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity. “Are you going out, Father?” she said. “Eh?” “Are 1kiahgvmn 4mn you going out?” She twisted nervously.

“What do you want to know for?” He made 4mn no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then 4mn over it again â€" then v4mn more closely over it v4mn again.

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were gv4mn angry under knitted brows. “What are 1kiahgvmn v4mn you bothering about?” he kiahgv4n said.

“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I ahgv4mn expect I am,” he said quietly.

She recovered at gv4mn once, but still kiahgv4n with v4mn timidity asked: “We haven’t got any v4mn candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling 1kiahgvmn his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy gv4mn us 1kiahgvmn 1kiahgvmn some, Father? Shall 4mn you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo gv4mn to his mouth and blowing a few 1kiahgvmn piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles gv4mn â€" blue 4mn ones and red

ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL hgv4mn you?” she insisted v4mn desperately. She v4mn wisely mistrusted his vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, hgv4mn shrill, brilliant. He ahgv4mn was playing Mozart. The child’s

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went v4mn out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music kiahgv4n seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man v4mn went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. ahgv4mn In the frosty evening the ahgv4mn sound carried.

people phiing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good player: was in request at concerts and 1kiahgvmn .


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