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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 f8a6 swung his head and nsf8a6 began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. sf8a6 He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as 8a6 the delicate music 8a6 poured out. It rz0mnsfa6 z0mnsf86 was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. f8a6 The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity mnsf8a6 nsf8a6 of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable 8a6 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 z0mnsf86 appeared mnsf8a6 in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was f8a6 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 rz0mnsfa6 8a6 you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made 8a6 no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then 8a6 over it again â€" then f8a6 more closely over it f8a6 again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were sf8a6 angry under knitted brows. “What are rz0mnsfa6 f8a6 you bothering about?” he z0mnsf86 said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I mnsf8a6 expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at sf8a6 once, but still z0mnsf86 with f8a6 timidity asked: “We haven’t got any f8a6 candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling rz0mnsfa6 his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy sf8a6 us rz0mnsfa6 rz0mnsfa6 some, Father? Shall 8a6 you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo sf8a6 to his mouth and blowing a few rz0mnsfa6 piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles sf8a6 â€" blue 8a6 ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL nsf8a6 you?” she insisted f8a6 desperately. She f8a6 wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, nsf8a6 shrill, brilliant. He mnsf8a6 was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went f8a6 out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music z0mnsf86 seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man f8a6 went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. mnsf8a6 In the frosty evening the mnsf8a6 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 rz0mnsfa6 .