"My friends"--what a charming voice the fellow had!--"I do not want to bring a note of sorrow into your happiness. You are here, like my companion and myself, for enjoyment; but Herr Klotz ... his wife is very ill; she is perhaps dying; and, my friends, it is very hard that he should play while his wife is dying ... on Christmas Eve ... in a strange country. You are English, and I know you are kind. I have sent him home, and I promised that I would take his place, as well as I can take the place of such an artist. For you who work so hard, it is not fair to spoil your happiness on this of all nights--but you will forgive me? Good!" And his face had a whimsical, tender look. A murmur of sympathy rose from the crowd, but died away as he raised the violin in his hands and brought from it a tone that breathed over them like a benediction. It was Gounod's "_Ave Maria_," and the pianist's fingers were mothering the keys as they had not done since his ambition evaporated like a cloud on a summer day. It was exquisite--haunting. It was a prayer to Mary, but a prayer sung in a field of daisies and violets. There was sorrow in it, but it was the grief of a girl over a shattered dream. It was mature artistry, yet was born of sunshine and throbbed with the primrose sweetness of youth. It touched one like the face of a beautiful child. Still caressing the violin, he repeated the "_Ave Maria_," whistling a unison. With almost any one else it would have been commonplace; with him it was a sound more pleasing than any flute, and only accentuated his sense of emancipation from the thrall of years. He played "_Still wie die Nacht_," "_Old King Wenceslaus_," "_Meditation_" from Thaïs, "_Intermezzo_" of Mascagni; and whatever he did, or however hackneyed the piece, he surrounded it with a joyousness that trembled on the brink of tears. I looked at my watch; it was nearly midnight, and the evening so dreaded was almost at a close. He had put down his violin with a gesture of finality, when the prolonged outburst of applause changed his decision, and, with another of those rare smiles, he took the instrument once more. Maxwellton's braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gi'ed me her promise true.... The violin seemed to speak the words; and I'll swear there wasn't a woman in the place who wasn't recalling the sweet innocence of her first love. He had hardly finished, when the man with the face like a pumpkin jumped to his feet, and I rubbed my eyes. The fellow had changed. His face had expression. Confound it! there was something rather splendid about his features--a kindliness--a---- "Young feller, m'lad," he was saying, "I knows I speaks for hevery one when I says we ain't 'eard music like that there since we was knee-'igh to a grass'opper, and I knows you won't take it hamiss if we was to pass the 'at and----" I held my breath. What would the Blower of Bubbles say?