s honest citizens
should; and added, laying my hand upon his shoulder, for I had more of a
leaning toward Karl, scamp though he was, than to any of the others,
"You might do worse than follow our example, old fellow."

"Bah!" said he, with unutterable contempt. "I'm a man; not a milksop.
Besides, how do I know what your example is? You say you behave
yourselves; but how am I to know it? I'll drop upon you unawares and
catch you, some time. See if I don't."

The next evening, by a rare chance with us, was a free one--there was no
opera and no concert; we had had probe that morning, and were at liberty
to follow the devices and desires of our own hearts that evening.

These devices and desires led us straight home, followed by a sneering
laugh from Herr Linders, which vastly amused me. The year was drawing to
a close. Christmas was nigh; the weather was cold and unfriendly. Our
stove was lighted; our lamp burned pleasantly on the table; our big room
looked homely and charming by these evening lights. Master Sigmund was
wide awake in honor of the occasion, and sat upon my knee while his
father played the fiddle. I have not spoken of his playing before--it
was, in its way, unique. It was not a violin that he played--it was a
spirit that he invoked--and a strange answer it sometimes gave forth to
his summons. To-night he had taken it up suddenly, and sat playing,
without book, a strange melody which wrung my heart--full of minor
cadences, with an infinite wail and weariness in it. I closed my eyes
and listened. It was sad, but it was absorbing. When I opened my eyes
again and looked down, I found that tears were running from Sigmund's
eyes. He was sobbing quietly, his head against my breast.

"I say, Eugen! Look here!"

"Is he crying? Poor little chap! He'll have a good deal to go through
before he has learned all his lessons," said Eugen, laying down his
violin.

"What was that? I never heard it before."

"I have, often," said he, resting his chin upon his hand, "in the sound
of streams--in the rush of a crowd--upon a mountain--yes, even alone
with the woman I--" He broke off abruptly.

"But never on a violin before?" said I, significantly.

"No, never."

"Why don't you print some of those impromptus that you are always
making?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. Ere I could pursue the question some one
knocked at the door, and in answer to our _herein!_ appeared a handsome,
laughing face, and a head of wavy