“My dear, my dear, what matter? We have had a glorious morning, my friend and I. Ah! This is my friend, Mr. Paul—” he hesitated—“your other name?” “Gaspard.” “Ah! Gaspard! Mr. Paul Gaspard. French, my dear, French. That is where he gets his music. French, of course!” The old gentleman was much delighted. “Mr. Gaspard, my daughter Julie. A wonderful young man this, Julie. Now we must hasten through dinner in order that we may have some music.” But Julie would have none of this. “Papa,” she said severely, “you must at once go and prepare yourself for dinner. Show Mr. Gaspard to your room. And then we shall sit down and quietly enjoy our Sunday dinner, and we shall take full time to it too.” “Ah! Julie, you are so material. You are so much of this world.” “It is well for you that somebody is material and of this world. But run away and get ready.” It said much for Julie’s housekeeping powers that the unexpected appearance of a guest in that small family produced no apparent embarrassment. The dinner was simple, and, to a young man fresh from the ranges, not too substantial, but quite sufficient for the old organist, who picked daintily at his food, and for his daughter. Her father was full of his discovery of Paul, much to the latter’s embarrassment, who protested that he was not a musician and assured Julie that he played the piano but a very little. “Ah, but some day!” cried the old organist. “Some day you will be a great artist on the organ. I see it in your fingers, I see it in your face, I see it most of all in your Spring Song. Ah! Julie, he will play for you his Spring Song.” But Julie insisted that the subject of music should be banished from the dinner table. “If my father talks music,” she said in explanation to Paul, “he cannot and will not eat. Therefore we must talk something else, even the weather. But no more music till dinner is over.” And this she achieved by skilfully turning the conversation now to one subject, now to another, and most successfully when she beguiled Paul into telling the story of his experiences of the past summer. Beyond that he would not go. His reticence also extended to his plans for the future. In regard to what he meant to do he expressed himself in vague generalities, and his hosts were much too well bred to show any curiosity on the subject. Dinner over, the old gentleman was relentlessly hailed away by his daughter to an hour’s rest. “You know, Papa, you have your evening service and you must have your rest to be ready for it. My father is not strong,” she explained to Paul, “and therefore he needs to be cared for like a baby.” “Ah, Mr. Gaspard,” said her father, “she is a hard taskmaster. She is one to be obeyed. She rules me with a rod of iron. I shall leave you. There is the piano, and I beg you to consider yourself as in your own home.”