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