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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 gm7c swung his head and 2ogm7c began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. ogm7c He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as m7c the delicate music m7c poured out. It 0jny2og7c jny2ogmc was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. gm7c The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity y2ogm7c 2ogm7c of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable m7c 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 jny2ogmc appeared y2ogm7c in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was gm7c 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 0jny2og7c m7c you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made m7c no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then m7c over it again â€" then gm7c more closely over it gm7c again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were ogm7c angry under knitted brows. “What are 0jny2og7c gm7c you bothering about?” he jny2ogmc said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I y2ogm7c expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at ogm7c once, but still jny2ogmc with gm7c timidity asked: “We haven’t got any gm7c candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling 0jny2og7c his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy ogm7c us 0jny2og7c 0jny2og7c some, Father? Shall m7c you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo ogm7c to his mouth and blowing a few 0jny2og7c piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles ogm7c â€" blue m7c ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL 2ogm7c you?” she insisted gm7c desperately. She gm7c wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, 2ogm7c shrill, brilliant. He y2ogm7c was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went gm7c out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music jny2ogmc seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man gm7c went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. y2ogm7c In the frosty evening the y2ogm7c 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 0jny2og7c .