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him. Then herocked his eye over the sheet of music spread out on the table before him. He tried his flute. Andthen at last, with the odd gesture of a diver taking a plunge, he mj15 swung his head and cdmj15 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. dmj15 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as j15 the delicate music j15 poured out. It gtbycdm15 tbycdmj5 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. mj15 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity ycdmj15 cdmj15 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable j15 anger, in his good-humored rest, as he played thefinely-spun peace-music. The more exquisite the music, the more perfectly he produced it, in sheer bliss; and at the same time, the more intense was the maddened exasperation within him. Millicent tbycdmj5 appeared ycdmj15 in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was mj15 a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind. At length it ended, her father was turning over the various books and sheets. She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity. “Are you going out, Father?” she said. “Eh?” “Are gtbycdm15 j15 you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made j15 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then j15 over it again â€" then mj15 more closely over it mj15 again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were dmj15 angry under knitted brows. “What are gtbycdm15 mj15 you bothering about?” he tbycdmj5 said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I ycdmj15 expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at dmj15 once, but still tbycdmj5 with mj15 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any mj15 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling gtbycdm15 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy dmj15 us gtbycdm15 gtbycdm15 some, Father? Shall j15 you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo dmj15 to his mouth and blowing a few gtbycdm15 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles dmj15 â€" blue j15 ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL cdmj15 you?” she insisted mj15 desperately. She mj15 wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, cdmj15 shrill, brilliant. He ycdmj15 was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went mj15 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music tbycdmj5 seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man mj15 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. ycdmj15 In the frosty evening the ycdmj15 sound carried. people phiing down the street hesitated, listening. The neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed a good player: was in request at concerts and gtbycdm15 .