cross the man's back
was slung a large violin, in its bag; and across the back of the boy
hung a violin like that of the father, only shorter and fatter and
squarer, and on his head was a huge woollen cap. He took it off and
wiped the perspiration from his white forehead.

The man looked down at him once more and halted. "Now, but we will rest
here," he said gently. He removed the violin-bag carefully from his back
and threw himself on the ground and took from his pocket a great pipe.

With a little sigh the boy sat down beside him.

The man nodded good-naturedly. "Ja, that is right." He blew a puff of
smoke toward the morning clouds; "the Bachs do not hurry, my child--no
more does the sun."

The boy smiled proudly. He looked up toward the ball of fire sailing
above them and a change came over his face. "We might miss the choral,"
he said wistfully. "They won't wait, will they?"

The big man shook his head. "We shall not be late. There is my clock."
He nodded toward the golden sun. "And I have yet another here," he
added, placing a comfortable hand on his big stomach.

The boy laughed softly and lay quiet.

The man opened his lips and blew a wreath of smoke.

"There will be more than a hundred Bachs," he said slowly, "and you must
play what I have taught you--not too slow and not too fast." He looked
down at the boy's fat fingers. "Play like a true Bach and no other," he
added.

The boy nodded. "Will Uncle Christoph be there?" he asked after a pause.

"Ja."

"And Uncle Heinrich?"

"Ja, ja!"

The boy gave a quick sigh of contentment.

His father was looking at him shrewdly. "But it is not Uncle Heinrich
that will be making a player of you, and it is not Uncle Christoph. It
is only Johann Sebastian Bach that can make himself a player," he said
sternly.

"Yes, father," replied the boy absently. His eyes were following the
clouds.

The man blew great puffs of smoke toward them. "It is more than a
hundred and twenty years ago that we came from Hungary," he said
proudly.

The boy nestled toward him. "Tell me about it." He had heard the story
many times.

"Ja, ja," said the man musingly.... "He was my great-grandfather, that
man--Veit Bach--and your great-great-grandfather."

The boy nodded.

"And he was a miller----"

He dropped into silence, and a little brook that ran over the stones
near by babbled as it went.

The boy raised his eyes. "And he had a lute," he prompted softly.

"Ja, he had a