Two days passed, and another day, and still the professor had not returned. It was Saturday evening and Samuel was seated upon the steps of the house, resting after a hard day's work. Sophie was seated near him, leaning back against the house with her eyes closed. The evening was warm and beautiful, and gradually the peace of it stole over her. And so at last she revealed herself to Samuel. “Do you like music?” she asked. “Very much indeed,” said he. “Not everybody does,” she remarked--“I mean real music, such as Friedrich plays.” “I don't know,” said Samuel. “Who is Friedrich?” “He's a friend of mine,” Sophie answered. “He's a German boy. His father's the designer at the carpet works. And he plays the violin.” “I should like to hear him,” said he. “I'll take you,” she volunteered. “I generally go to see them on Sunday afternoons. It's the only time I have.” So the next day Samuel met the Bremers. Their cottage was a little way out in the country, and they had a few trees about it and a flower bed. But the house was not large, and it was well filled with a family of nine children. Johann, the father, was big and florid, with bristling hair. He was marked in the town because he called himself a “Socialist,” but Samuel did not know that. His wife was a little mite of a woman, completely swamped by child-bearing. Most interesting to Samuel was Friedrich, who played the violin; a pale ascetic-looking boy of fifteen, with wavy hair and beautiful eyes. Music was a serious rite with the Bremers. The father played the piano, and the next oldest son to Friedrich was struggling with a 'cello; and when they played, the whole family sat in the parlor, even the tiny tots, round-eyed and silent. Samuel knew some “patriotic songs,” and a great number of hymns, and a few tunes that one heard at country dances. But such music as this was a new revelation of the possibilities of life. He listened in a transport of wonder and awe. Such wailing grief, such tumultuous longing, such ravishing and soul-tormenting beauty! Friedrich had only such technique as his father had been able to give him, together with what he had invented for himself; his bowings were not always correct, and he was weak on the high notes; but Samuel knew nothing of this--he was thinking of the music. And he needed no one to tell him about it--he needed no criticisms and no commentaries. Across the centuries the souls of Schubert and Beethoven spoke to him, telling their visions of the wonderful world of the spirit, toward which humanity is painfully groping. It was impossible for him to keep from voicing his excitement, and this greatly delighted the Bremers, who craved for comprehension in a lonely place. His sympathy gave wings to their fervor, and they played the whole afternoon through, and then Johann invited them to stay to supper, so that they might play some more in the evening. “You should haf been a musician,” he said to Samuel. “You vas made for it.”