t them on their knees to me every time;" then after a pause, "I
don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good
old times," and he actually sighed in remembrance.

Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the
case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of
silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently,
and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to
happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed
the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and the bow
bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in contact
with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on his
cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought.

As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving
toward the violinist, said: "Magnificent! I never have heard better
playing! What is the make of your violin?"

Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly put the instrument in its
case; "Oh, it is a famous make," he drawled.

"Will you let me examine it?" said the elder, placing his hand on the
case.

"I never allow any one to touch my violin," replied Diotti, closing the
cover quickly.

"Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may
discover?" queried the old man.

"I prefer that no one handle it," said the virtuoso commandingly.

"Very well," sighed the old man resignedly, "there are violins and
violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category," this half
sneeringly.

"Uncle," interposed Mildred tactfully, "you must not be so persistent.
Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to
play upon it but himself," and the look of relief on Diotti's face
amply repaid her.

Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in
his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of
revolutionary relics in his study.

"I value them highly," said the banker, "both for patriotic and
ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and
helped to make this land what it is."

The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter
and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a
large armchair, said: "Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the
enormous success of this Diotti."

"He is a wonderful artist," replied Mildred; "critics and public alike