through the
coloured glass of the high windows, or in winter evenings with no light
but that of the fire fitfully dancing on the rows and rows and _rows_
of books that lined the walls from floor to ceiling, only varied here
and there by the portrait of some powdered-haired great-grandfather or
grandmother smiling, or sometimes, perhaps, frowning down on their
funny little descendant in his sailor-suit, with his short-cropped,
dark head. A quaint little figure against the gleaming white fur,
dreaming--what?--he could not have told you, for he had not much
cleverness in telling what he thought. But his music-dreams were very
charming nevertheless, and in after life, whenever anything beautiful or
exquisite came in his way, Basil's thoughts always flew back to the old
library and his mother's playing.

For long he had imagined that nothing of music kind could be more
delightful. But a short time before this little story begins a new
knowledge had come to him. At a concert at Tarnworth--for once or twice
a year there were good concerts at the little town--he had heard a
celebrated violinist play, and it seemed to Basil as if a new world had
opened to him.

"Mother," he said, when the concert was over, looking up at his mother
with red cheeks and sparkling eyes, "it's better than the piano--that
little fiddle, I mean. It's like--like----"

"Like what, my boy?"

"I can't say it," said Basil, "but it's like as if the music didn't
belong to _here_ at all. Like as if it came out of the air someway,
without notes or anything. I think if I was an awfully clever man I
could say things out of a fiddle, far better than write them in books."

His mother smiled at him.

"But you mustn't call it a fiddle, Basil. A violin is the right name."

"Violin," repeated Basil thoughtfully. And a few minutes later, when
they were in the carriage on their way home, "Mother," he said, "do you
think I might learn to play the violin?"

"I should like it very much," said his mother. "But I fear there is no
teacher at Tarnworth. I will inquire, however. Only, Basil, there is one
thing. The violin is difficult, and you don't like difficulties."

Basil opened his eyes.

"Difficult," he said, and as he spoke he put up his left arm as he had
seen the violinist do, sawing the air backwards and forwards with an
imaginary bow in his right--"difficult! I _can't_ fancy it would be
difficult. But any way, I'd awfully like to learn it."

This had be