g--and they never will learn it
in the world. They want to learn to build railways and bridges and all
sorts of things, but how can anybody even get ready to build a railway
or a bridge till he's got over this bridge and the rest of the
geometry? I don't know whether I can ever learn it all myself, but I'm
going to the School of Engineering up at the University, next spring,
to learn chemistry, and qualitative analysis, and calculus, and
analytical mechanics, and graphical statics, and metallurgy, and
thermodynamics, and hydraulics, and a lot of other things. But these
people here will still be at work on this same triangle years after I
am dead, if they have anybody to teach them."

"Now, Terence, my boy," said the King, "there's one thing you can do
for us we can understand. Give us a tune out of the fiddle."

Kathleen was startled to hear this boy named Terence asked to play on
the fiddle, just as if he had been the other Terence whom she knew.
She wondered if he played like the other Terence. She scarcely dared
wait to hear, and she felt as if she should like to run away, only she
did not know where to run.

But she did not think any more about running after Terence began to
play. This was different. And yet in one way it was the same. For the
music that Terence was playing was just the music that the other
Terence often played and just what most people liked to hear him play
best, though Kathleen had always liked it as little as anything else
that he did. She had never heard anyone else play it till now. And now
it was so different. She could scarcely tell the difference, and yet
she could feel it in every clear note that Terence drew out with his
bow.

When she was a little girl, almost as long ago as she could remember,
she used to say, when the other Terence played this very music, that
it did not mean anything. But now it meant something. Meant something!
It meant--everything, Kathleen thought, and yet she could not tell at
all what it meant. It was not happiness that it meant, and it was not
sorrow; it was not merry, and it was not grave. Sometimes it was light
and gentle and sweet, and flowed along as if it were a little
fountain of music, bubbling and bubbling out of a hidden place; then
it would be slower, but fine and firm, and full and free and true. It
seemed to Kathleen to mean so much, and yet she could not tell what,
except that there was something like a deep longing that went all
through it.