value, and,
indeed, but two which were worth valuing. One of these, of course, was
his exquisite young daughter, then a little child; the other was his
wonderful old flute. The daughter he secluded with the jealous care of
a far-eastern parent; the flute he played upon with an artistic skill
unequalled in the history of orchestras in that small theatre.

With it he could easily have found a place in the best orchestra in
London, but, apparently, he did not care to offer such a band his
services. On the one or two occasions when a "cruising listener" for
the big orchestras came to the little theatre, heard the old man's
masterful performance, found himself enthralled by it and made the
marvelous flute-player a rich offer, the old man refused peremptorily
even to talk the matter over with him--to the great delight of the
small manager, who was paying but a pittance for his splendid work.

So anxious did Herr Kreutzer seem to be to keep from winning notice
from the outside world, indeed, that when a stranger who might
possibly be one of those explorers after merit in dim places appeared
there in the little theatre, the other members of the orchestra felt
quite sure of wretched playing from the grey-haired flutist. If it
chanced that they had noticed no such stranger, but yet Herr Kreutzer
struck false notes persistently, they all made sure that they had
missed the entrance of the "cruiser," searched the audience for him
with keen and speculative eyes and played their very best, certain
that the man was there and hopeful of attracting the attention and the
approbation which the old flute-player shunned. More than one had thus
been warned, to their great good.

And Herr Kreutzer, on such evenings, was privileged to strike false
notes with painful iteration, even to the actual distress of auditors,
without a word of criticism from the leader or the manager.
Excruciating discord from the flute, on three or four nights of a
season, was accepted as part payment for such playing, upon every
other night, as seldom had been heard from any flute in any orchestra
in London or elsewhere.

The theatre saw very little of the daughter. Once at the beginning of
the run of every fit new play, the flute-player requested of the
manager a box and always got it. In this box, on such occasions, his
daughter sat in solitary state, enjoying with a childish fervor the
mumming of the actors on the stage, the story of the play, the music
of the