of the
man's playing. Mary tried hard to get hold of some clew to the
combinations and sequences, but the motive of them she could not find.
Whatever their source, there was, either in the composition itself or
in his mode of playing, not a little of the inartistic, that is, the
lawless. Yet every now and then would come a passage of exquisite
melody, owing much, however, no doubt, to the marvelous delicacy of the
player's tones, and the utterly tender expression with which he
produced them. But ever as she thought to get some insight into the
movement of the man's mind, still would she be swept away on the storm
of some change, seeming of mood incongruous.

At length came a little pause. He wiped his forehead with a blue cotton
handkerchief, and seemed ready to begin again. Mary interrupted him
with the question:

"Will you please tell me whose music you have been playing?"

He opened his eyes, which had remained closed even while he stood
motionless, and, with a smile sweeter than any she had ever seen on
such a strong face, answered:

"It's nobody's, miss."

"Do you mean you have been extemporizing all this time?"

"I don't know exactly what that means."

"You must have learned it from notes?"

"I couldn't read them if I had any to read," he answered.

"Then what an ear and what a memory you must have! How often have you
heard it?"

"Just as often as I've played it, and no oftener. Not being able to
read, and seldom hearing any music I care for, I'm forced to be content
with what runs out at my fingers when I shut my eyes. It all comes of
shutting my eyes. I couldn't play a thing but for shutting my eyes.
It's a wonderful deal that comes of shutting your eyes! Did you never
try it, miss?"

Mary was so astonished both by what he said and the simplicity with
which he said it, having clearly no notion that he was uttering
anything strange, that she was silent, and the man, after a moment's
retuning, began again to play. Then did Mary gather all her listening
powers, and brace her attention to the tightest--but at first with no
better success. And, indeed, that was not the way to understand. It
seems to me, at least, in my great ignorance, that one can not
understand music unless he is humble toward it, and consents, if need
be, not to understand. When one is quiescent, submissive, opens the
ears of the mind, and demands of them nothing more than the
hearing--when the rising waters of question retire to t