Mary was too wise to hurry anything. One evening when he came as usual, and she knew he was not at the moment wanted, she asked him to take a seat while she played something to him. But she was not a little disappointed in the reception he gave her offering--a delicate morsel from Beethoven. She tried something else, but with no better result. He showed little interest: he was not a man capable of showing where nothing was, for he never meant to show anything; his expression was only the ripple of the unconscious pool to the sway and swirl of the fishes below. It seemed as if he had only a narrow entrance for the admission of music into his understanding--but a large outlet for the spring that rose within him, and was, therefore, a somewhat remarkable exception to the common run of mortals: in such, the capacity for reception far exceeds the capability of production. His dominant thoughts were in musical form, and easily found their expression in music; but, mainly no doubt from want of practice in reception, and experience of variety in embodiment, the forms in which others gave themselves utterance could not with corresponding readiness find their way to the sympathetic place in him. But pride or repulsion had no share in this defect. The man was open and inspired, and stupid as a child. The next time she made the attempt to open this channel between them, something she played did find him, and for a few minutes he seemed lost in listening. "How nice it would be," she said, "if we could play together sometimes!" "Do you mean both at once, miss?" he asked. "Yes--you on your violin, and I on the piano." "That could hardly be, I'm afraid, miss," he answered; "for, you see, I don't know always--not exactly--what I'm going to play; and if I don't know, and you don't know, how are we to keep together?" "Nobody can play your own things but yourself, of course--that is, until you are able to write them down; but, if you would learn something, we could play that together." "I don't know how to learn. I've heard tell of the notes and all that, but I don't know how to work them." "You have heard the choir in the church--all keeping with the organ," said Mary. "Scarcely since I was a child--and not very often then--though my mother took me sometimes. But I was always wanting to get out again, and gave no heed." "Do you never go to church now?" "No, miss--not for long. Time's too precious to waste." "How do you spend it, then?"