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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 50ao


swung his head and 4q50ao began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. q50ao He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as 0ao the delicate music 0ao poured out. It jz6s4q5ao z6s4q50o was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. 50ao The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity s4q50ao 4q50ao of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable 0ao 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 z6s4q50o appeared s4q50ao in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was 50ao 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 jz6s4q5ao 0ao you going out?” She twisted nervously.



“What do you want to know for?” He made 0ao no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then 0ao over it again â€" then 50ao more closely over it 50ao again.





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were q50ao angry under knitted brows. “What are jz6s4q5ao 50ao you bothering about?” he z6s4q50o said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I s4q50ao expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at q50ao once, but still z6s4q50o with 50ao timidity asked: “We haven’t got any 50ao candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling jz6s4q5ao his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy q50ao us jz6s4q5ao jz6s4q5ao some, Father? Shall 0ao you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo q50ao to his mouth and blowing a few jz6s4q5ao piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles q50ao â€" blue 0ao ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL 4q50ao you?” she insisted 50ao desperately. She 50ao wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, 4q50ao shrill, brilliant. He s4q50ao was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went 50ao out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music z6s4q50o seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man 50ao went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. s4q50ao In the frosty evening the s4q50ao 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 jz6s4q5ao .








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