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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 jzxt swung his head and ydjzxt began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. djzxt He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as zxt the delicate music zxt poured out. It up2lydjxt p2lydjzt was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. jzxt The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity lydjzxt ydjzxt of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable zxt 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 p2lydjzt appeared lydjzxt in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was jzxt 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 up2lydjxt zxt you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made zxt no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then zxt over it again â€" then jzxt more closely over it jzxt again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were djzxt angry under knitted brows. “What are up2lydjxt jzxt you bothering about?” he p2lydjzt said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I lydjzxt expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at djzxt once, but still p2lydjzt with jzxt timidity asked: “We haven’t got any jzxt candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling up2lydjxt his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy djzxt us up2lydjxt up2lydjxt some, Father? Shall zxt you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo djzxt to his mouth and blowing a few up2lydjxt piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles djzxt â€" blue zxt ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL ydjzxt you?” she insisted jzxt desperately. She jzxt wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, ydjzxt shrill, brilliant. He lydjzxt was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went jzxt out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music p2lydjzt seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man jzxt went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. lydjzxt In the frosty evening the lydjzxt 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 up2lydjxt .