“And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—the race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep Yom Kippur, to be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. This,” with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced Patchuol—Hungarian name. Her mother was my sister.” Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh at my uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.” “Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you can play together. I will go fetch the violin.” The old man left the room. “What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was timid, as indeed it was natural she should be. “I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have wished. “What have you got?” We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is at present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr. Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label might have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in response to the A which Veronika gave me said so also—and that did not lie. I played as best I could. Rather, the music played itself. With a violin under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose my identity. Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the voice of my instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I have been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does from a trance. When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” he cried, releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. Veronika, speak, tell him how nobly he has played.” “I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has taken away all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her eyes to stay with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in my breast from the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into flame. A great light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to my very finger tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we played the march from Raff’s Lenore. I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic composition. At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After a breathing spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own accompaniment while I stood by to turn.