"Fame is the love of the many," Aunt Peace rejoined, "and counts for no more than the love of the few. The great ones have said it was barren, and my little girl will be better off here." As she spoke, she put her arm around Iris, and they went to the house together. At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor Brinkerhoff said good night. "It has been perfect," said Miss Field, as she gave him her hand. "If this were to be my last night on earth, I could not ask for more--my beautiful garden, with the moonlight shining upon it, music, and my best friends." The Doctor was touched, and bent low over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly with his lips. "I thank you, dear madam," he answered, gently, "for the happiest evening I have ever spent." "Come again, then," she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh. "The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!" * * * * * That night, just at the turn of dawn, Margaret was awakened by a hot hand upon her face. "Dearie," said Aunt Peace, weakly, "will you come? I'm almost burning up with fever." XI "Sunset and Evening Star" Doctor Brinkerhoff came in the morning, but afterward, when Margaret questioned him, he shook his head sadly. "I will do the best I can," he said, "and none of us can do more." He went down the path, bent and old. He seemed to have aged since the previous night. On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann's as usual, but he played carelessly. "Young man," said the Master, "why is it that you study the violin?" "Why?" repeated Lynn. "Well, why not?" "It is all the same," returned the Master, frankly. "I can teach you nothing. You have the technique and the good wrist, you read quickly, but you play like one parrot. When I say 'fortissimo,' you play fortissimo; when I say 'allegro,' you play allegro. You are one obedient pupil," he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn. "What else should I be?" asked Lynn. "Do not misunderstand," said the Master, more kindly. "You can play the music as it is written. If that satisfies you, well and good, but the great ones have something more. They make the music to talk from one to another, but you express nothing. It is a possibility that you have nothing to express." Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely troubled. "One moment," the Master went on, "have you ever felt sorry?" "Sorry for what?" "Anything." "Of course--I am often sorry." "Well," sighed the Master, instantly comprehending, "you are young, and it may yet come, but the sorrows of youth are more sharp than those of age, and there is not much chance. The violin is the most noble of instruments. It is for those who have been sorry to play to those who are. You have nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your fine technique. Since you wish to amuse, change your instrument, and study the banjo, or perhaps the concertina."