Take Care of Your Loved Ones

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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 vecj swung his head and i0vecj began to play. A stream of music, soft and rich and fluid, came out of the flute. 0vecj He played beautifully. He moved his head and his raised bare arms with slight, intense movements, as ecj the delicate music ecj poured out. It bd5mi0vcj d5mi0vej was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid and delicate. vecj The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity mi0vecj i0vecj of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense, exasperatedto the point of intolerable ecj 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 d5mi0vej appeared mi0vecj in the room. She fidgetted at the sink. The music was vecj 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 bd5mi0vcj ecj you going out?” She twisted nervously. “What do you want to know for?” He made ecj no other answer, and turned again to the music. His eye went down a sheet â€" then ecj over it again â€" then vecj more closely over it vecj again. “Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were 0vecj angry under knitted brows. “What are bd5mi0vcj vecj you bothering about?” he d5mi0vej said. “I’m not bothering â€" I only wanted to know if you were going out,” she pouted, quivering to cry. “I mi0vecj expect I am,” he said quietly. She recovered at 0vecj once, but still d5mi0vej with vecj timidity asked: “We haven’t got any vecj candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling bd5mi0vcj his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy 0vecj us bd5mi0vcj bd5mi0vcj some, Father? Shall ecj you?” “Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo 0vecj to his mouth and blowing a few bd5mi0vcj piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles 0vecj â€" blue ecj ones and red ones, in boxes â€" Shall you, Father?” “We’ll see â€" if I see any â€"” “But SHALL i0vecj you?” she insisted vecj desperately. She vecj wisely mistrusted his vagueness. But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, i0vecj shrill, brilliant. He mi0vecj was playing Mozart. The child’s face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went vecj out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music d5mi0vej seemed to possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man vecj went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. mi0vecj In the frosty evening the mi0vecj 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 bd5mi0vcj .