lated, and
love itself may be no more than a delightful accident. It was just by
chance that somebody in a lighted room, without a thought of audience,
went to the piano and remembered that music. Chance makes things grow on
old stone walls; and in the rich man's rock-garden, wealth, skill, and
calculation try to imitate the charm. The music ceased, and my gratitude
must remain unspoken--unless, by a chance that were wellnigh miraculous,
this page may carry it. But artists--be they makers of music or
pictures, poems or stories--must not think too much of gratitude; for
they will not always get it, and they will not always deserve it. That
king of old once flung a javelin at the musician who played before him.
Some lazy souls can never do their uttermost unless they are thrashed up
to it. A moderate amount of javelin--avoiding vital parts--is not always
bad for the artist.

My garden, they tell me, was once the garden of an old priory. Under one
corner of the lawn is the well that provided the religious with water.
It has been covered in with stone, and just over the stone the grass
refuses to grow. It is like a tonsure. But though I have been in my
garden I think at every hour of the night and of the early morning, I
have met no shadowy figures counting their beads or reading their little
illuminated books. These good people sleep long and quietly.

Let me tell you the story of

THE GHOSTLY MUSIC

There was once a master of music, who, from the charity of his heart and
from his love of excellence, took as his pupil without reward a young
boy that was greatly gifted. And in time it came to pass that the pupil
reached his zenith and the powers of the master had begun to decline, so
that it was said by some that the pupil now surpassed the master. And
the hints of this that came to the master's ears were to him bitter as
wormwood.

Now it happened one day that, as the pupil walked in a wood, music came
to him; and he hastened back to his house in order that he might sit
down at the piano and play it. For although, being a musician, he knew
quite well how the music would sound, he yet wished to hear it. And as
he was on his way, though it was a calm day, the great limb of a
treacherous elm fell upon him and crushed him so that he died. And in
his music-room his piano waited in vain.

Upon his death all bitterness passed away from the heart of his master.
Rivalry died with the rival. There came back to him old recol