ening it in some trepidation Mary read the sad news of Agnes's death. Mr. Henry was kind enough to give her full particulars. Agnes had, it seemed, stood the voyage out well. But

e letter aloud, Mary swallowed hard; then veiled her discomfort with an apologetic: "Oh well, you know . . . poor man, . . . I daresay --" by which she meant to imply that

ROM A MAN WHO WAS ON BOARD THE SAME SHIP. IT'S TRUE SHE DID TRIP OVER A ROPE AND COME A CROPPER (AND NOT THE FIRST TIME NEITHER, AS WE KNOW) AND

that even among her nearest it should stir only a sense of good riddance and relief: the tragedy of such a finish moved Mary to the depths. Tenderly she laid away the keepsake Mr. Henry sent h

amongst his wife's belongings - found sealed and addressed but never posted - a blotted and scrawled production and more than a little confused, but full of love and kindness; though written with the firm conviction that they would never m

hese, which were her daily portion, he heard not a word. It left her, of course, much freer to deal with things. But it also spared him the exhaustion of many a towering rage (under the influence of which he was quite capable of writing to the bootmaker and calling him a thief); saved him, too, from going off into one

it. - Though putting up a visitor nowadays meant considerable inconvenience: they had to turn out of their own room, she going in with the children, Richard making shift with the dining-room sofa. Still, in this case she thought the upset worth while: for Richard's sake.

rst time on moving into a new house, he had not set them up in his room. But she wasn't going to let people think that, because he had come to live up-country, he was therefore

ains. As far as Richard was con

ugh dinner. And then he tried to get out of coming to table! Going in search of him on his non-appearance, she found him

just as nice as he always was. We're ge

beration, using odd, archaic words ("Like the Bible," thought Cuffy); and, could he not at once find the word he sought, he paused in what he was saying and scoured his mind till he had captured it. This, added to the fact that he did things at table that were strictly forbidden them, made him an object of enormous interest to the children; and three pairs of eyes hung entranced on him as he ate an

a forgot, in the middle of a sentence, what he was going to say (because Mamma interrupted him with a potato) and tried and tried his hardest to remember and couldn't, and got very cross with himself. Mamma thought it was funny though, for she

t Richard, the patient gone, first set his door ajar, then came along the passage and sat down in an armchair by the drawing-room window. Cuffy, at ball on the verandah, also crept in and took up his position close to the piano, leaning against it and staring fixedly at t

liged to smile . . . he didn't know why, his mouth just smiled by itself. He also left off fiddling with the ball. By now the Baron had become aware of his small listener. Musician-wise had noted, too, the child's instinctive response to the tripping scherzo. Pausing, he peered at Cuffy through his large round spectacles; and before putting his fingers in place for the third piece, leant over and patted the boy's cheek

ting bigger . . . till it was almost too tight for his chest. Letting his ball fall, he pressed his fists close to where he thought his heart must be. Something hurt him in there . . . he didn't LIKE this music, he wanted to call out to it to stop. But the piano didn't c

a lot of little notes that sounded just like a wind, and throwing back his head

WANDERVOGEL ZIEH'N, DAS BEDEUTET FRUHLIN

sounds, was too much for him. His eyes ran over and tears ran down his che

e back - made ever

nk-you for the pretty music?" (If only he was not g

eed, to Mary's way of thinking. And then he took no more notice of her, but bent over C

om the room to the bottom of the garden; where he hid among the raspberry-bushes. He

ron were talking, and he heard Mamma say: " . . . without the least difficulty . . . ever

r in Cuffy at these

o turn the pages. Ungraciously Cuffy climbed to the slippery leather top, from which his short legs dangled. Very well then if he must play, he must, he didn't care; but

chooldays - at an end, his mother wait

d again: "H'm!" Adding as a kind of

uite a different voice. "Well, and how many wer

o catch it!) Cuffy just managed to stammer out:

this, too, is a sign . . . this capacity for to escape! - But now come hither, my son, and let us play the little game. The bad little boy who counts the flies, so long he plays the

t's easy!

fellow, so

fy liked thi

D sharp . . . good! And here this - an ugly one

her . . . close,

moment he stood looking down at it; and his brown, bearded face was very solemn. Then, stooping, he kissed the boy on the forehead. "May the good God b

when it was cool enough to go walking, it was Cuffy the Baron invited to accompany him. "Nay, we

, further than they were allowed to go with Miss Prestwick; and the Baron told him about the trees a

turned it over to the back, and stretched out the fingers and felt the tips, and where the thumb joined on. And when he had done this he didn't let it

ng his hand held either. So he only looked away, and kicked

n he began to talk, and he talked and talked. It lasted so long that it was like being in church, and was very dull,

e plucked up courage to ask something he wanted very much to know; once

oes mus

ce you have played me have said nothing - nothing at all . . . oh, how wise, how wise to count the little flies! But that what you have flowed tears for, my child, that were the sufferings of a so unhappy man - the fears that are coming by night to devour the peace - oh, I will not say them to one so tender! . . . but these, so great were they, so unhappy he, that at

an. - Wh

as this. Have no care. The knowledge wil

ding down from the log, he jumped and danced, feeling now so

oken in him by this emptiness and space, this desolation; with always the serene blue heaven above, and these pale, sad, so grotesque trees that weep and rave. He puts the golden wattle in it when it blooms and reeks, and this melancholy bush, oh, so old, so old, and this silence as of death that nothing stirs. No birdleins will sing in his Musik. B

rture was three days old by now, and the letter she had just read was written in his hand. "Onl

e it's out of

among strangers - with these Hermanns or Germans or whatever he calls them - why, it's almost too silly to discuss. As for his offer to defray all expenses

never entered his head. My

e you flare up at the mere mention of

o the boy, but he's a connoisseur in music, a thoroughly competent judge. Surely

If any one knows Cuffy is clever it's me.

hing to do wi

What els

g impatient. "Music, and the musical facul

EL

we spoke a different language. The fact of the

thanks I get for it is to hear that I'm not capable of judging . . . haven't a note of music in me! The truth is, I'm good enough to work and slave to make ends meet. But when it comes to anything else, anything CLEVERER . . . then the first

her round a corner of the house, with sticks for swords, advancing and retreating to the cry of

ts origin was forgotten, was the sole trace left on