re this, his daughter Margaret had almost broken that
heart by marrying a man of whom he could not approve. Martin Moore was
a professional violinist. He was a popular performer, though not in any
sense a great one. He met the slim, golden-haired daughter of the manse
at the house of a college friend she was visiting in Toronto, and
fell straightway in love with her. Margaret had loved him with all
her virginal heart in return, and married him, despite her father's
disapproval. It was not to Martin Moore's profession that Mr. Leonard
objected, but to the man himself. He knew that the violinist's past
life had not been such as became a suitor for Margaret Leonard; and his
insight into character warned him that Martin Moore could never make any
woman lastingly happy.

Margaret Leonard did not believe this. She married Martin Moore and
lived one year in paradise. Perhaps that atoned for the three bitter
years which followed--that, and her child. At all events, she died as
she had lived, loyal and uncomplaining. She died alone, for her husband
was away on a concert tour, and her illness was so brief that her father
had not time to reach her before the end. Her body was taken home to be
buried beside her mother in the little Carmody churchyard. Mr. Leonard
wished to take the child, but Martin Moore refused to give him up.

Six years later Moore, too, died, and at last Mr. Leonard had his
heart's desire--the possession of Margaret's son. The grandfather
awaited the child's coming with mingled feelings. His heart yearned for
him, yet he dreaded to meet a second edition of Martin Moore. Suppose
Margaret's son resembled his handsome vagabond of a father! Or, worse
still, suppose he were cursed with his father's lack of principle, his
instability, his Bohemian instincts. Thus Mr. Leonard tortured himself
wretchedly before the coming of Felix.

The child did not look like either father or mother. Instead, Mr.
Leonard found himself looking into a face which he had put away under
the grasses thirty years before--the face of his girl bride, who had
died at Margaret's birth. Here again were her lustrous gray-black eyes,
her ivory outlines, her fine-traced arch of brow; and here, looking out
of those eyes, seemed her very spirit again. From that moment the soul
of the old man was knit to the soul of the child, and they loved each
other with a love surpassing that of women.

Felix's only inheritance from his father was his love of mu