By this time they were both in a state of super-exaltation. When Paul’s fingers fell from the keyboard the old man, with the tears streaming down his face, cried out, “Boy! boy! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Who taught you that?” He threw his arms around him and kissed him, French fashion, on both cheeks. “Come with me,” he continued. “Come home and dine with me. I want you to know my girl, my Julie. I want you to play my piano, a wonderful piano.” There was no resisting the impetuous enthusiasm of the old organist, and before Paul was aware he found himself accepting this invitation to dinner and on his way to the organist’s home. And as they walked they talked, and talked music only. “Who taught you your music?” inquired the old organist. “Your father? He must have been a great artist.” “It was my mother made me practise,” said Paul. “And to her I owe any skill I have upon the piano. But my father was an artist. He had the thing in his soul, and though he never professed to be a great player I think now he must have had the gift of music. It was he that taught me to play the music of the streams, of the wind in the trees, of the sunset, and of the stars. He himself used to play these things to my mother and me, when the mood was on him.” “Ah!” cried the old organist. “That is true teaching. That is high art, and there is no other. Oh, these teachers of today, and in this city! Atrocious! Atrocious! Murderers of music! Philistines! Barbarians! One, two, three, one, two, three; tum, tum, tum, tum, tum, tum! A diploma at the end of a year, or at most of two years! Public performers after another year! Gilmour’s Grand March, Smith’s March to Moscow, Jones’ Storm at Sea—oh, it is terrible! It is terrible!” Their way home took them a long walk through the suburbs of the city. There, hard against the heights overlooking the city, Paul found a little house snugly ensconced in the shadow of a great rock and surrounded with a garden riotous with late blooming flowers. “Oh, what a garden!” he exclaimed. “And what lovely flowers! My mother’s flowers!” “Ah!” exclaimed the old man. “Your mother’s flowers? Good! These are my Julie’s flowers, the dear girl. There is the artistic soul. I will show you some of her work. Some day she will be a great artist. Some day I shall take her to see the great world galleries. Come in, Mr. Paul, come in.” He threw open the door and swept Paul in with an old world bow. “Welcome to my humble abode! Welcome to my home! Julie! Julie!” he cried. In response to his call a girl came running out of the door. Tall she was and slight, the plainness of her face redeemed and glorified by wonderful dark eyes. A girl in face and expression, though in years she had long passed the period of girlhood. “You are very late, Papa,” she exclaimed “and very naughty indeed. You must be tired and hungry.”