The man’s face grew radiant. Holding aside the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, he took a few steps toward her, bent down, and kissed first one, and then the other of the soles of her little shoes, which were covered with fine grains of damp sand, that he felt against his lips. “The good God gave you to me, Rose-Jewel,” he said. “Put your hands together while I play Him a prayer of thanks.” Unquestioningly, the child placed her two hands palm to palm, and looked up reverently, as he began to play. It was a strange, wild, sweet _Te Deum_ that rose now and filled the little room. The very heart of praise was in it, the very soul of thankfulness. The man’s dark eyes, for the time, had lost sight of the gift in the Giver, and were turned upward to the dingy ceiling, that was soon obscured by tears. The large drops rolled from his lids and ran down his cheeks. His face grew strained and seamed with agitation, and a thick sob rose in his throat. Still he played on with that rapt, uplifted gaze, until a sound from the sofa recalled him, and he started, and lowered his bow-arm with a sudden movement of dismay. There were tears in the eyes of Rose-Jewel, too, and her little heart, which he felt should know only the joy of praise, was tasting too soon its sorrow and solemnity. As one quick, sharp sob followed another he felt a sudden deep contrition stab him, and lifting his bow again, he began to play in a quieting, comforting, reassuring strain, interspersed with words that matched it. “The dear God loves us both, Rose-Jewel,” he said. “He wants us to be happy and bright, and not cry or get frightened. He sends us beautiful angels to take care of us, and make us go to sleep, and have sweet dreams. Listen to this now, and see if you don’t hear them flying into the room.” The child ceased sobbing, and listened with earnest attentiveness, and by and by he had the joy of seeing her fall into a gentle sleep. He played on, pleasing himself with the idea that his music represented to her, in her sleep, the dreams the angels brought. At last, when she had sunk into a slumber too deep for dreams, and even the sobbing breaths of her scarcely spent emotion were stilled, he gently laid by his violin and came and sat down beside her. He placed himself, with extreme care not to disturb her, at the bottom of the sofa upon which she lay. His eyes lingered on her a moment, and then wandered around the room. The poor sketches on the walls, all so weak and ineffectual, looked back at him sadly, as it seemed to him, and the piano was another reproach.