“You've eased her down, I hope, lad,” said the old man, untying the bag and drawing forth the violin. “That's right. As for bringing her back again, you remember what used to be the sayin' when you was a child, 'Give a thing and take a thing, that's the devil's plaything.' I meant thee to keep her, lad. It's a sin an' a shame as such a voice should be silent.” “Uncle,” said Reuben, stammering somewhat, “I scarcely like to take her. It seems like--like trespassing on your goodness.” “I won't demean th' old lady,” returned Ezra. “Her comes o' the right breed to have all the virtues of her kind. Her's a Stradivarius, Reuben, and my grandfather gi'en fifty guineas for her in the year seventeen hundred an' sixty-one. A king might mek a present of her to a king. And that's why in the natural selfishness of a man's heart I kep' her all these 'ears hangin' dumb and idle on the wall here. I take some shame to myself as I acted so, for you might ha' had her half a dozen years ago, and ha' done her no less than as much justice as I could iver ha' done her myself at the best days of my life. Her's yourn, my lad, and I only mek one bargain. If you should marry and have children of your own, and one of 'em should be a player, he can have her, but if not, I ask you to will her to somebody as'll know her value, and handle her as her deserves.” Reuben was embarrassed by the gift. “To tell the truth, uncle,” he said, “I should take her the more readily if I'd coveted her less.” “Bring her out into the gardin, lad,” returned his uncle. “Let's hear the 'Last Rose' again.” Reuben followed the old man's lead. His uncle's house-keeper carried chairs to the grass-plot, and there the old man and the young one sat down together in the summer air, and Reuben, drawing a little pitch-pipe from his pocket, sounded its note, adjusted the violin, and played. Ezra set his elbows upon his knees and chin in his hands, and sat to listen. “Lend her to me, lad,” he said, when his nephew laid the instrument across his knees. “I don't know--I wonder--Let's see if there is any of the old skill left.” His face was gray and his hands shook as he held them out. “Theer's almost a fear upon me,” he said, as he took the fiddle and tucked it beneath his chin. “No, no, I dar' not. I doubt the poor thing 'ud shriek at me.” “Nonsense, uncle,” answered Reuben, with a swift and subtle movement of the fingers of the left hand, such as only a violin-player could accomplish. “I doubt if there is such a thing as forgetting when once you have played. Try.”