compel the wilful stars. And, thanks to the Buckle, he would have the exceptional setting, the background of material elegance, that became his conquering person. Since Mr. Grew had retired from business his investments had prospered, and he had been saving up his income for just such a contingency. His own wants were few: he had transferred the Wingfield furniture to Brooklyn, and his sitting-room was a replica of that in which the long years of his married life had been spent. Even the florid carpet on which Ronald's tottering footsteps had been taken was carefully matched when it became too threadbare. And on the marble centre-table, with its chenille-fringed cover and bunch of dyed pampas grass, lay the illustrated Longfellow and the copy of Ingersoll's lectures which represented literature to Mr. Grew when he had led home his bride. In the light of Ronald's romance, Mr. Grew found himself re-living, with a strange tremor of mingled pain and tenderness, all the poor prosaic incidents of his own personal history. Curiously enough, with this new splendor on them they began to emit a small faint ray of their own. His wife's armchair, in its usual place by the fire, recalled her placid unperceiving presence, seated opposite to him during the long drowsy years; and he felt her kindness, her equanimity, where formerly he had only ached at her obtuseness. And from the chair he glanced up at the large discolored photograph on the wall above, with a brittle brown wreath suspended on a corner of the frame. The photograph represented a young man with a poetic necktie and untrammelled hair, leaning negligently against a Gothic chair-back, a roll of music in his hand; and beneath was scrawled a bar of Chopin, with the words: Adieu, Adèle." The portrait was that of the great pianist, Fortuné Dolbrowski; and its presence on the wall of Mr. Grew's sitting-room commemorated the only exquisite hour of his life save that of Ronald's birth. It was some time before the latter memorable event, a few months only after Mr. Grew's marriage, that he had taken his wife to New York to hear the great Dolbrowski. Their evening had been magically beautiful, and even Addie, roused from her habitual inexpressiveness, had quivered into a momentary semblance of life. "I never I nev

66

er-" she gasped out helplessly when they had regained their hotel bedroom, and sat staring back entranced at the evening's evocations. Her large immovable face was pink and tremulous, and she sat with her hands on her knees, forgetting to roll up her bonnet strings and prepare her curl-papers.

"I'd like to write him just how I felt-I wisht I knew how!" she burst out suddenly in a final effervescence of emotion. Her husband lifted his head and looked at her.

"Would you? I feel that way too," he said with a sheepish laugh. And they continued to stare at each other shyly through a transfiguring mist of sound.

Mr. Grew recalled the scene as he gazed up at the pianist's faded photograph." Well, I owe her that anyhow-poor Addie!" he said, with a smile at the inconsequences of fate. With Ronald's telegram in his hand he was in a mood to count his mercies.

III

"A CLEAR twenty-five thousand a year: that's what you can tell 'em with my compliments," said Mr. Grew, glancing complacently across the centre-table at his boy's charming face.

It struck him that Ronald's gift for looking his part in life had never so romantically expressed itself. Other young men, at such a moment, would have been red, damp, tight about the collar; but Ronald's cheek was only a shade paler, and the contrast made his dark eyes more expressive.

"A clear twenty-five thousand; yes, sirthat's what I always meant you to have." Mr. Grew leaned back, his hands thrust carelessly in his pockets, as though to divert attention from the agitation of his features. He had often pictured himself rolling out that phrase to Ronald, and now that it was actually on his lips he could not control their tremor.

Ronald listened in silence, lifting a nervous hand to his slight dark moustache, as though he, too, wished to hide some involuntary betrayal of emotion. At first Mr. Grew took his silence for an expression of gratified surprise; but as it prolonged itself it became less easy to interpret. "I-see here, my boy; did you expect more? Isn't it enough?" Mr. Grew

"No, no," the young man interrupted, abruptly raising his hand as though to silence his father.

Mr. Grew recovered his cheerfulness. "Well, what's the matter then, if she's willing?"

sion. "You must have known this was sure to happen sooner or later."

"Happen? What was sure to hap-?" Mr. Grew's question wavered on his lip and passed into a tremulous laugh. "Is it something I've done that you don't approve of? Is it-is it the Buckle you're ashamed of, Ronald Grew?"

Ronald laughed too, impatiently. "The Buckle? No, I'm not ashamed of the Buckle; not any more than you are," he returned with a sudden bright flush. "But I'm ashamed of all I owe to it-all I owe to you-when-when-" He broke off and took a few distracted steps across the room. "You might make this easier for me," he protested, turning back to his father.

"Father-I-there's something I've got to tell you. I can't take your money."

Mr. Grew sat speechless a moment, staring blankly at his son; then he emitted a puzzled laugh. "My money? What are you talking about? What's this about my money? Why, it ain't mine, Ronny; it's all yours-every cent of it!" he cried.

The young man met his tender look with a gaze of tragic rejection.

"No, no, it's not mine-not even in the sense you mean. Not in any sense. Can't you understand my feeling so?”

"Feeling so? I don't know how you're feeling. I don't know what you're talking about. Are you too proud to touch any money you haven't earned? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"No. It's not that. You must know—” Mr. Grew flushed to the rim of his bristling whiskers. "Know? Know what? Can't you speak?"

Ronald hesitated, and the two men faced each other for a long strained moment, during which Mr. Grew's congested countenance grew gradually pale again.

"What's the meaning of this? Is it because you've done something . . . some thing you're ashamed of . . . ashamed to tell me?" he suddenly gasped out; and walking around the table he laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "There's nothing you can't tell me, my boy."

"It's not that. Why do you make it so hard for me?" Ronald broke out with pas

Ronald's walk had once more brought him beneath the photograph on the wall. He lifted his head for a moment and looked at it; then he looked again at Mr. Grew. "Do you suppose I haven't always known?"

music-my-all my feelings about life . . . and art. And when you gave me the letters I thought you must mean me to know."

Mr. Grew had grown quiet. His lips were firm, and his small eyes looked out steadily from their creased lids.

Ronald made a mute sign of assent.

"I see. And what did you mean to do?" "I meant to wait till I could earn my living, and then repay you . . . as far as I can ever repay you. But now that there's a chance of my marrying . . . and your generosity overwhelms me I'm obliged to speak."

"I see," said Mr. Grew again. He let himself down into his chair, looking steadily and not unkindly at the young man. "Sit down, Ronald. Let's talk.”

Ronald made a protesting movement. "Is anything to be gained by it? You can't change me-change what I feel. The reading of those letters transformed my whole life-I was a boy till then: they made a man of me. From that moment I understood myself." He paused, and then looked up at Mr. Grew's face. "Don't imagine I don't appreciate your kindness-your extraordinary generosity. But I can't go through life in disguise. And I want you to know that I have not won Daisy under false pretences

Mr. Grew started up with the first expletive Ronald had ever heard on his lips. "You damned young fool, you, you havent told her?”

Ronald raised his head quickly. "Oh, you don't know her, sir! She thinks no worse of me for knowing my secret. She is above and beyond all such conventional prejudices. She's proud of my parentage" he straightened his slim young shoulders "as I'm proud of it . . . yes, sir, proud of it. . ."

Mr. Grew sank back into his seat with a dry laugh. "Well, you ought to be. You come of good stock. And you're father's son, every inch of you!" He laughed again, as though the humor of the situation grew on him with its closer contemplation. "Yes, I've always felt that," Ronald murmured, flushing.

"Your father's son, and no mistake." Mr. Grew leaned forward. "You're the

Ronald stared. "What do you mean? Don't they tell their own story?"

"I supposed they did when I gave them to you; but you've given it a twist that needs straightening out." Mr. Grew squared his elbows on the table, and looked at the young man across the gift-books and the dyed pampas grass. "I wrote all the letters that Dolbrowski answered."

Ronald gave back his look in frowning perplexity. "You wrote them? I don't understand. His letters are all addressed to my mother."

"Yes. And he thought he was corresponding with her."

"But

my mother-what did she think?” Mr. Grew hesitated, puckering his thick lids. "Well, I guess she kinder thought it was a joke. Your mother didn't think about things much."

Ronald continued to bend a puzzled frown on the question. "I don't understand," he reiterated.

Mr. Grew cleared his throat with a nervous laugh. "Well, I don't know as you ever will quite. But this is the way it came about. I had a toughish time of it when I was young. Oh, I don't mean so much the fight I had to put up to make my way-there was always plenty of fight in me. But inside of myself it was kinder lonesome. And the outside didn't attract callers." He laughed again, with an apologetic gesture toward his broad blinking face. "When I went round with the other young fellows I was always the forlorn hope the one that had to eat the drumsticks and dance with the left-overs. As sure as there was a blighter at a picnic I had to swing her, and feed her, and drive her home. And all the time I was mad after all the things you've got-poetry and music and all the joy-forever business. So there were the pair of us-my face and my imagination-chained together, and fighting, and hating each other like poison.

"Then your mother came along and took pity on me. It sets up a gawky fellow to

find a girl who ain't ashamed to be seen walking with him Sundays. And I was grateful to your mother, and we got along first-rate. Only I couldn't say things to her-and she couldn't answer. Well-one day, a few months after we were married, Dolbrowski came to New York, and the whole place went wild about him. I'd never heard any good music, but I'd always had an inkling of what it must be like, though I couldn't tell you to this day how I knew. Well, your mother read about him in the papers too, and she thought it'd be the swagger thing to go to New York and hear him play-so we went. . . I'll never forget that evening. Your mother wasn't easily stirred up-she never seemed to need to let off steam. But that night she seemed to understand the way I felt. And when we got back to the hotel she said suddenly: 'I'd like to tell him how I feel. I'd like to sit right down and write to him.'

"Would you?' I said. 'So would I.' "There was paper and pens there before us, and I pulled a sheet toward me, and began to write. 'Is this what you'd like to say to him?' I asked her when the letter was done. And she got pink and said: 'I don't understand it, but it's lovely.' And she copied it out and signed her name to it, and sent it."

after, before he went back to Europe, he sent your mother a last little note, and that picture hanging up there. . ."

Mr. Grew paused again, and both men lifted their eyes to the photograph. "Is that all?" Ronald slowly asked. "That's all-every bit of it," said Mr. Grew.

"And my mother-my mother never even spoke to Dolbrowski?"

"Never. She never even saw him but that once in New York at his concert "

The blood crept again to Ronald's face. "Are you sure of that, sir?” he asked in a trembling voice.

"Sure as I am that I'm sitting here. Why, she was too lazy to look at his letters after the first novelty wore off. She copied the answers just to humor me-but she always said she couldn't understand what we wrote."

"But how could you go on with such a correspondence? It's incredible!" Mr. Grew looked at his son thoughtfully. "I suppose it is, to you. You've only had to put out your hand and get the things I was starving for-music, and good talk, and ideas. Those letters gave me all that. You've read them, and you know that Dolbrowski was not only a great musician but a great man. There was nothing

"That's how it began; and that's where I thought it would end. But it didn't, because Dolbrowski answered. His first letter was dated January 10, 1872. I guess you'll find I'm correct. Well, I went back to hear him again, and I wrote him after the performance, and he answered again. And after that we kept it up for six months. Your mother always copied the letters and signed them. She seemed to think it was a kinder joke, and she was proud of his answering my letters. But she never went back to New York to hear him, though I saved up enough to give her the treat again. She was too lazy, and she let me go without her. I heard him three times in New York; and in the spring he came to Wingfield and played once at the Academy. Your mother was sick and couldn't go; so I went alone. After the performance I meant to get one of the directors to take me in to see him; but when the time came, I just went back home and wrote to him instead. And the month

didn't feel. For six months I breathed his air, and I've lived on it ever since. Do you begin to understand a little now?”

"Yes-a little. But why write in my mother's name? Why make it a sentimental correspondence?"

Mr. Grew reddened to his bald temples. "Why, I tell you it began that way, as a kinder joke. And when I saw that the first letter pleased and interested him, I was afraid to tell him-I couldn't tell him. Do you suppose he'd gone on writing if he'd ever seen me, Ronny?"

Ronald suddenly looked at him with new eyes. "But he must have thought your letters very beautiful-to go on as he did," he broke out.

"Well-I did my best," said Mr. Grew modestly.

Ronald pursued his idea. "Where are all your letters, I wonder? Weren't they returned to you at his death?"

Mr. Grew laughed. "Lord, no. I guess he had trunks and trunks full of better ones.

"I should have liked to see your letters," the young man insisted.

"Well, they weren't bad," said Mr. Grew drily. "But I'll tell you one thing, Ronny," he added suddenly. Ronald raised his head with a quick glance, and Mr. Grew continued: "I'll tell you where the best of those letters is-it's in you. If it hadn't been for that one look at life I couldn't have made you what you are. Oh, I know you've done a good deal of your own making-but I've been there behind you all the time. And you'll never know the work I've spared you and the time I've saved you. Fortuné Dolbrowski helped me do that. I never saw things in little again after I'd looked at 'em with him. And I tried to give you the big

Mr. Grew paused, and for a long time Ronald sat motionless, his elbows on the table, his face dropped on his hands.

Suddenly Mr. Grew's touch fell on his shoulder.

"Look at here, Ronald Grew-do you want me to tell you how you're feeling at this minute? Just a mite let down, after all, at the idea that you ain't the romantic figure you'd got to think yourself... Well, that's natural enough, too; but I'll tell you what it proves. It proves you're my son right enough, if any more proof was needed. For it's just the kind of fool nonsense I used to feel at your age-and if there's anybody here to laugh at it's myself, and not you. And you can laugh at me just as much as you like. . .”

M

USTAPHA, the flute-maker, had a daughter. Now Mustapha was forty and four years old, and his shop was beside the eastern city gate, just where the laden camels pad into the city, and Bedouins and merchants enter and issue on their way to and from the cities of the South, by way of the Sahara. The shop of Mustapha was a hole in the thickness of the wall about seven feet high, six feet broad and eight feet long, and in it were hung a selection of flutes, finely scratched with intricate designs colored red with henna, well dried; and of every size, from the delicate reed scarcely more than the slimness of a woman's finger, to the hollowed bamboo as thick as half your wrist and without a mouthpiece at all. A young boy could blow the former, but a man's hand only is long enough to encompass the stops on the latter, and a man's breath necessary to coax the bamboo out of its dumbness. And the notes blown from these instruments

are rich and woody, with a sweet hoarseness and whispering like the rustle of leaves and hoof-sounds in dry grass.

Now the Araby name for a flute is a gasba, and because this name is fruitier and huskier than "flute," just as a gasba is fruitier and huskier than a Northern pipe, I will in future call Mustapha a maker of the gasba. Mustapha loved each gasba, from the moment when he scraped the knots from the green bamboo and hung it to yellow in the sun, where it ripened like the apricots in his garden, to the moment when he drew forth its virgin note and thrilled it with the divine breath of music. He felt, indeed, when he lifted a young gasba to his lips to impart this breath of life, something of the pleasure of Allah, who smiled when he heard the first cry issue from the lips of man, his creation-and a troublesome one at that, with none of the docility of Mustapha's gasba. Before that auspicious moment, however, the gasba had been hollowed out, cunningly pierced with holes, scraped and altered many times,