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had come to stay. "I'd have worried most awful if I'd had to leave Jimmy all alone. He's crying in there this minute. Come now, Jimmy, dry up. Here's Ted come to stop with you after all, and he's brought his fiddle, too." Jimmy's tears were soon dried, and he welcomed Ted joyfully. "I've been thinking awful long to hear you fiddling," said Jimmy, with a sigh of content. "Seems like the ache ain't never half so bad when I'm listening to music--and when it's your music, I forget there's any ache at all." Ted took his violin and began to play. After all, it was almost as good as a picnic to have a whole afternoon for his music. The stuffy little room, with its dingy plaster and shabby furniture, was filled with wonderful harmonies. Once he began, Ted could play for hours at a stretch and never be conscious of fatigue. Jimmy lay and listened in rapturous content while Ted's violin sang and laughed and dreamed and rippled. There was another listener besides Jimmy. Outside, on the red sandstone doorstep, a man was sitting--a tall, well-dressed man with a pale, beautiful face and long, supple white hands. Motionless, he sat there and listened to the music until at last it stopped. Then he rose and knocked at the door. Ted, violin in hand, opened it. An expression of amazement flashed into the stranger's face, but he only said, "Is Mrs. Ross at home?" "No, sir," said Ted shyly. "She went over to White Sands and she won't be back till night. But Jimmy is here--Jimmy is her little boy. Will you come in?" "I'm sorry Mrs. Ross is away," said the stranger, entering. "She was an old nurse of mine. I must confess I've been sitting on the step out there for some time, listening to your music. Who taught you to play, my boy?" "Nobody," said Ted simply. "I've always been able to play." "He makes it up himself out of his own head, sir," said Jimmy eagerly. "No, I don't make it--it makes itself--it just _comes_," said Ted, a dreamy gaze coming into his big black eyes. The caller looked at him closely. "I know a little about music myself," he said. "My name is Blair Milford and I am a professional violinist. Your playing is wonderful. What is your name?" "Ted Melvin." "Well, Ted, I think that you have a great talent, and it ought to be cultivated. You should have competent instruction. Come, you must tell me all about yourself." Ted told what little he thought there was to tell. Blair Milford listened and nodd
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