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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 6uco swung his head and lp6uco began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. p6uco He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as uco the delicate music uco poured out. It sdg0lp6co dg0lp6uo was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. 6uco The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity 0lp6uco lp6uco of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable uco 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 dg0lp6uo appeared 0lp6uco in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was 6uco 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 sdg0lp6co uco you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made uco no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then uco over it again â€" then 6uco more closely over it 6uco again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were p6uco angry under knitted brows. “What are sdg0lp6co 6uco you bothering about?” he dg0lp6uo said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I 0lp6uco expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at p6uco once, but still dg0lp6uo with 6uco timidity asked: “We haven’t got any 6uco candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling sdg0lp6co his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy p6uco us sdg0lp6co sdg0lp6co some, Father? Shall uco you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo p6uco to his mouth and blowing a few sdg0lp6co piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles p6uco â€" blue uco ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL lp6uco you?” she insisted 6uco desperately. She 6uco wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, lp6uco shrill, brilliant. He 0lp6uco was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went 6uco out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music dg0lp6uo seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man 6uco went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. 0lp6uco In the frosty evening the 0lp6uco 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 sdg0lp6co .