meal. Now and then a tramping apprentice joined him. But his
silence did not invite companionship.

Once in the neighbourhood of Kitzingen he came upon a high fenced park.
Under a maple tree in the park sat a young girl in a white dress reading
a book. A voice called: "Sylvia!" Thereupon the girl arose, and with
unforgettable grace of movement walked deeper into the garden.

And Daniel thought: Sylvia! A sound as though from a better world. He
shuddered. Was it to be his lot to stand without a gate of life that
gave everything to the eyes and nothing to the hands?

X

He sought out Andreas Doederlein at once. He was told that the professor
was not in town. Two weeks later he stood once more before the old
house. He was told that the professor could not be seen to-day. He was
discouraged. But out of loyalty to his cause he returned at the end of
three days and was received.

He entered an overheated room. The professor was sitting in an arm
chair. On his knees was his little, eight-year-old daughter; in his
right arm he held a large doll. The white tiles of the stove were
adorned with pictured scenes from the Nibelungen legend; table and
chairs were littered with music scores; the windows had leaded panes; in
one corner there was a mass of artfully grouped objects--peacocks'
feathers, gay-coloured silks, Chinese fans. This combination was known
as a Makart bouquet, and represented the taste of the period.

Doederlein put the little girl down and gave her her doll. Then he drew
himself up to the fulness of his gigantic stature, a process that gave
him obvious pleasure. His neck was so fat that his chin seemed to rest
on a gelatinous mass.

He seemed not to recall Daniel. Cues had to be given him to distinguish
this among his crowded memories. He snapped his fingers. It was a sign
that his mind had reached the desired place. "Ah, yes, yes, yes! To be
sure, to be sure, my dear young man! But what do you suppose? Just now
when all available space is as crowded as a street strewn with crumbs is
crowded with sparrows. We might take the matter up again in autumn. Yes,
in autumn something might be done."

A pause, during which the great man gave inarticulate sounds of profound
regret. And was the young man, after all, so sure of a genuine talent?
Had he considered that art was becoming more and more an idling place
for the immature and the shipwrecked? It was so difficult to tell the