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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 itub

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

with slight, intense movements, as tub the delicate music tub poured out. It zs0ovriub s0ovritb was sixteenth-century Christmas melody, very limpid

and delicate. itub The pure, mindless, exquisite motion and fluidity ovritub vritub of the music delighted him with a strange exasperation. There was something tense,

exasperatedto the point of intolerable tub 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 s0ovritb appeared ovritub in the room. She fidgetted at the

sink. The music was itub 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 zs0ovriub tub you going out?” She twisted nervously.

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

“Are you?” persisted the child, balancing on one foot. He looked at her, and his eyes were ritub angry under knitted brows. “What are zs0ovriub itub you bothering about?” he s0ovritb said.

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

She recovered at ritub once, but still s0ovritb with itub timidity asked: “We haven’t got any itub candles for the Christmas tree â€" shall you buy some, because mother

isn’t going out?” “Candles!” he repeated, settling zs0ovriub his music and taking up the piccolo. “Yes â€" shall you buy ritub us zs0ovriub zs0ovriub some, Father? Shall tub you?”

“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo ritub to his mouth and blowing a few zs0ovriub piercing, preparatory notes. “Yes, little Christmas-tree candles ritub â€" blue tub ones and red

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

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

face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went itub out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise. The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music s0ovritb seemed to

possess the air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man itub went on playing to himself, measured and insistent. ovritub In the frosty evening the ovritub 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 zs0ovriub .

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