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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 jrmi


swung his head and q7jrmi began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. 7jrmi He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms



with slight, intense movements, as rmi the delicate music rmi poured out. It sb5wq7jmi b5wq7jri was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid





and delicate. jrmi The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity wq7jrmi q7jrmi of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,


exasperatedto the point of intolerable rmi 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 b5wq7jri appeared wq7jrmi in the room. She fidgetted at the



sink. The music was jrmi 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 sb5wq7jmi rmi you going out?” She twisted nervously.



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





“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were 7jrmi angry under knitted brows. “What are sb5wq7jmi jrmi you bothering about?” he b5wq7jri said.



“I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I wq7jrmi expect I am,” he said quietly.


She recovered at 7jrmi once, but still b5wq7jri with jrmi timidity asked: “We haven’t got any jrmi candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother




isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling sb5wq7jmi his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy 7jrmi us sb5wq7jmi sb5wq7jmi some, Father? Shall rmi you?”




“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo 7jrmi to his mouth and blowing a few sb5wq7jmi piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles 7jrmi â€" blue rmi ones and red




ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL q7jrmi you?” she insisted jrmi desperately. She jrmi wisely mistrusted his vagueness.



But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, q7jrmi shrill, brilliant. He wq7jrmi was playing Mozart. The child’s


face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went jrmi out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music b5wq7jri seemed to



possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man jrmi went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. wq7jrmi In the frosty evening the wq7jrmi 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 sb5wq7jmi .








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