Ellen looked up from where she was kneeling by a big basket into which she was emptying her last gleanings. “What do you know about Schumann?” asked the man. “My mother loved Schumann’s songs, so did my father, and so do I.” “Who are your mother and father, and who are you, my child?” “My father was Gerald North, the artist. He, and my mother, too, have left me alone on this earth. I am Ellen North, and I am making my home with Miss Rindy Crump. She is my cousin.” “Yes, yes, I forgot; Bessie did tell me. It is a sort of revelation to find any one from Miss Crump’s singing Schumann. How do you like it here?” “I—I—can’t tell exactly, not yet. It is a pretty little town and I love the mountains.” She waved her hand toward a distant line of purple. “Cousin Rindy was very, very good to let me come when I had nowhere to go, but—but it’s hard to get used to things that are so different from where I have lived, always in a studio, you know.” “Somewhat different, one might judge,” returned the man, smiling quizzically. “I can understand that, having lived in a studio myself, away back in the days of my youth.” Ellen sprang to her feet. “Oh, did you ever live in a studio?” “Yes, years ago in Leipzig, where I was a student of music, I lived with an artist friend. Aye! aye! what good times we had! Germany then wasn’t what it is to-day.” “Then you are a musician.” “A would-be one. I am the organist at the little church here, give lessons to the few pupils I can get, play the ’cello and violin when I get a chance, and—there you are.” “My father played the violin.” “So?” “Yes, he and my mother often played together, she at the piano and he with his violin. I used to love to hear them as I lay in bed. It was so pleasant to go to sleep with that lovely music in my ears.” “I can believe it, yes, I can well believe it.” “My mother had a beautiful voice. She sang in a big church and sometimes in private houses,” Ellen went on, wondering a little why she was so expansive. “And you, did you make some music, too?” “I began to learn the piano and the violin, but—now——” “You have it with you, the father’s violin?” asked Mr. Todd eagerly. Ellen shook her head. “No, it went with the piano and everything else.” “Too bad, too bad,” Mr. Todd shook his shaggy gray head. “Perhaps—we’ll see. At any rate there is Schumann to talk about. You have the songs, maybe.” “Those I still have; they are in my mother’s trunk which is to be sent to me here.” “Good! Some day——” But here a shrill voice interrupted: “Jeremy, Jeremy, where are you? Hanging over the fence dawdling away your time. I thought you were going to dig those turnips.” “Yes, dear, I’ll do it right away,” answered the man’s gentle voice. He turned to Ellen, shaking his head. “Turnips and Schumann! Never mind, we will have another talk soon. Good-by—Ellen, did you say? I am glad you have come, child. We shall be good friends.” He went off, and Ellen noticed that he limped slightly.