Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the concert. Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and would not accompany us. "I thought you particularly admired Beethoven's Ninth Symphony," I exclaimed, with surprise. "I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer gives them great praise. I would as soon hear that Larkum baby crowing as to hear such a masterpiece mangled." "Some passages will be well rendered, surely." "What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord? I shall expect, however, a full account of the performance from you." "I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in Belgium. I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after." "And why not?" "It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far beyond my powers to master." His face softened, while he arose from his chair and came a few steps nearer to me. "Only one or two human beings, so far as we know, have had musical powers equal to Beethoven. Most men are satisfied if they can perform harmoniously his creations." "I could never do that. I might by years of hard study get so far as to strike the correct notes, but the soul and expression would elude me, simply because I have not brain power sufficient to comprehend them. A thrush would be foolish to emulate the nightingale." "Yes but some one might be gladdened by its own simple note," he said, gently. I was silent, while his words sank comfortably in my heart. Looking up, at last, I caught his eye. "I will try to be satisfied with my thrush's note, and make the best of it." "That is right, but make sure that you are not any better song bird than the thrush, before you rest satisfied with its simple accomplishment." Very earnestly and sincerely I promised him to do my best, and then followed Mrs. Flaxman from the room. Our escort proved to be Mr. Bovyer, a grave man, not so young as Mr. Winthrop, and who had a genuine passion for classic music. I fancied from his name and partiality for German composers that he must be either directly or remotely of Teutonic origin. Beethoven was his great favorite. He averred that the latter had penetrated further into the mysteries of music than any other human being. He seemed transformed while we sat listening to the great waves of harmony bewildering our senses; for, notwithstanding Mr. Winthrop's prophecy, the concert was a success. He had a stolid face. One might take him almost for a retired, well-to-do butcher; but when the air was pulsating with delicious sounds, his face lighted up and grew positively handsome. "I wonder how you will endure the music of the immortals, that God listens to, if you get with the saved by and bye?" I said, impulsively. He shook his head doubtfully, but gave me at the same time a look of surprise. "I do not ask for anything better than Beethoven," he replied quietly.