"No, no, Fredrika," said the Master. "It is not a necessity to light the lamp." "Herr Irving," she began, "would you not like the lamp to see by?" "Not at all," answered Lynn. "I like the twilight best." "Come, Fraeulein," said Iris, "sit over here by me. Did I tell you how you could make a little clothes-brush out of braided rope and a bit of blue ribbon?" "No," returned the Fraeulein, excitedly, "you did not. It will be most kind if you will do it now." The women talked in low tones and the others were silent without listening. The street was in shadow, and here and there lanterns flashed in the dark. Down in the valley, velvety night was laid over the river and the willows that grew along its margin, but the last light lingered on the blue hills above, and a single star had set its exquisite lamp to gleaming against the afterglow. The wings of darkness hovered over the little house, and yet no word was spoken. It was an intimate hush, such as sometimes falls between lovers, who have no need of speech. Lynn and Iris looked forward to the future, with the limitless hope of Youth, while the others brooded over a past which had brought each of them a generous measure of joy and pain. The full moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the valley with silver light. "Oh," cried Iris, "how glorious it is!" "Yes," said the Master, "it is the light of dreams. All the ugliness is hidden, as in life, when one can dream. Only the beauty is left. Wait, I will play it to you." He went downstairs for his violin and Lynn moved closer to Iris. Fraeulein Fredrika retreated into the shadow at the farthest corner of the room. Presently the Master returned, snapping and tightening the strings. It was not the Cremona, but the other. He sat down by the window and the moonlight touched his face caressingly. He was grey with his fifty years and more, but as he sat there, his massive head thrown back and his hair silvered, he seemed very near to the Gates of Youth. In a moment, he was lost to his surroundings. He tapped the bow on the sill, as an orchestra leader taps for attention, straightened himself, smiled, and began. It was a rippling, laughing melody, played on muted strings, full of unexpected harmonies, and quaintly phrased. In a moment, they caught the witchery of it, and the meaning. It was Titania and her fairies, suddenly transported half-way around the world. Mystery and magic were in the theme. Moonbeams shimmered through it, elves played here and there, and shining waters sang through Summer silences. All at once there was a pause, then, sonorous, deep, and splendid, came another harmony, which in impassioned beauty voiced the ministry of pain. As before, Lynn saw chiefly the technique. Never for a moment did he forget the instrument. Iris was trembling, for she well knew those high and lonely places of the spirit, within the borders of Gethsemane.