ame in the morning, but afterward, when Margaret
questioned him, he shook his head sadly. "I will do the best I can," he
said, "and none of us can do more." He went down the path, bent and old.
He seemed to have aged since the previous night.

On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann's as usual, but he played
carelessly. "Young man," said the Master, "why is it that you study the
violin?"

"Why?" repeated Lynn. "Well, why not?"

"It is all the same," returned the Master, frankly. "I can teach you
nothing. You have the technique and the good wrist, you read quickly,
but you play like one parrot. When I say 'fortissimo,' you play
fortissimo; when I say 'allegro,' you play allegro. You are one
obedient pupil," he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn.

"What else should I be?" asked Lynn.

"Do not misunderstand," said the Master, more kindly. "You can play the
music as it is written. If that satisfies you, well and good, but the
great ones have something more. They make the music to talk from one to
another, but you express nothing. It is a possibility that you have
nothing to express."

Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely
troubled.

"One moment," the Master went on, "have you ever felt sorry?"

"Sorry for what?"

"Anything."

"Of course--I am often sorry."

"Well," sighed the Master, instantly comprehending, "you are young, and
it may yet come, but the sorrows of youth are more sharp than those of
age, and there is not much chance. The violin is the most noble of
instruments. It is for those who have been sorry to play to those who
are. You have nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your fine
technique. Since you wish to amuse, change your instrument, and study
the banjo, or perhaps the concertina."

Lynn understood no more than if Herr Kaufmann had spoken in a foreign
tongue. "I may have to stop for a little while," he said, "for my aunt
is ill, and I can't practise."

"Practise here," returned the Master, indifferently. "Fredrika will not
care. Or go to the office of mine friend, the Herr Doctor. He will not
mind. A fine gentleman, but he has no ear, no taste. Until you acquire
the concertina, you may keep on with the violin."

"My mother," began Lynn. "She wants me to be an artist."

"An artist!" repeated the Master, with a bitter laugh. "Your mother--"
here he paused and looked keenly into Lynn's eyes. Something was
stirred; some far-off memory. "She bel