ade him
for the time look much younger than was usually the case. He was not a
very old man, but past troubles had left their traces in deep lines and
wrinkles, and his hair was quite white; only his eyes preserved that
look of eternal youth which is sometimes granted to those whose thoughts
have always been unselfish, kindly, and generous. Delia played on,
halting a little over difficult passages, and as she played, the
Professor's face changed with the music, showing sometimes an agony of
anxiety during an intricate bit, and relaxing into a calm smile when she
got to smooth water again.

Once, as though urged by some sudden impulse, he rose and began to
stride up and down the room; but when she saw this, Delia dropped her
bow, and said in a warning voice, "Now, Professor!" when he at once
resumed his seat, and waited patiently until she had finished.

"It won't do, Delia," he said; "you've got the idea, but you can't carry
it out."

"Oh, I know," she replied, mournfully. "I know how bad it is, and the
worst of it is, that I can hear how it ought to be all the time."

"No," he said, quickly, "that's not the worst of it; that's the best of
it. If you were satisfied with it as it is, you would be a hopeless
pupil. But you've something of the true artist in you, Delia. The true
artist, you know, is never satisfied."

"I believe, though," said Delia, "that if I could shut myself up alone
somewhere for a time with my violin, and no one to disturb me, I should
be able to do something. I might not be satisfied, but oh, how happy I
should be! As it is--"

"As it is, you must do as greater souls have done before you," put in
the Professor--"win your way towards your ideal through troubles and
hindrances."

"I don't get far, though," said Delia, mournfully.

"Do you think you would get far by shutting yourself away from the
common duties of your life?" said Mr Goodwin, in a kind voice. "It's a
very poor sort of talent that wants petting and coaxing like that.
Those great souls in the past who have taught us most, have done it
while reaching painfully up to their vision through much that thwarted
and baffled them. Their lives teach us as well as their art, and
believe me, Delia, when the artist's life fails in duty and devotion,
his art fails too in some way."

"It is so hard to remember that all those dusty, little, everyday things
matter," said Delia.

"But if you think of what they stand for, they do mat