"No," said the Doctor, for the fiftieth time, "there is nothing you can do. Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple are not receiving. Yes, we expected it. The end was very peaceful and she did not suffer at all. Yes, it is surely a comfort to know that. The arrangements are all made. Yes, thank you, we have the music provided for. It was kind of you to come, and the ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?" Behind him were the portraits, ranged in orderly rows. Some were old and others young, but all had gone the way that Peace should go to-morrow. Dumbly, the Doctor wondered if the same remorseless questioning had gone on every time there had been a death in the old house, and, if so, why the very floors did not cry out in protest at the desecration. Life, that mystery of mysteries! The silence at the end and the beginning is far easier to understand than the rainbow that arches between. Man, the epitome of his forbears,--more than that, the epitome of creation,--stands by himself--the riddle of the universe. The house in some way seemed alive, in pitiful contrast to its mistress, who lay upstairs, spending her last night in the virginal whiteness of her chamber. To-night there, and to-morrow night---- Doctor Brinkerhoff, unable to bear the thought, recoiled as if from an unexpected blow. Was it fancy, or did the painted lips of the young officer in the uniform of the Colonies part in an ironical smile? * * * * * "So," said the Master, as he opened the door, "you are late to your lesson." "It is my lesson day, isn't it?" returned Lynn. "But I have only come to practise. My aunt is dead." "So? Your aunt?" "Yes, Aunt Peace. Miss Field, you know," he continued, in explanation. "So? I did not know. When was it?" "Sunday afternoon." "And this is Tuesday. Well, we hear very little up here. It is too bad." "Yes," agreed Lynn, awkwardly, "It--it upsets things." The Master looked at him narrowly. "So it does. For instance, you have lost one lesson on account of it, but you can practise. Come down in mine shop where I am finishing mine violin. You shall play your concerto. It is not a necessity to lose the practise for death." "That's what I thought," said Lynn, as they went downstairs. "She was very old, you know--more than seventy-five. There is a great deal of fuss made about such things." Again the Master looked at him sharply, but Lynn was unconscious and perfectly sincere. He was not touched at all. "You can have one of mine violins," the Master resumed, "and I shall finish the one upon which I am at work. The concerto, please." At once Lynn began, walking back and forth restlessly as he played. He had long since memorised the composition, and when he finished the first movement he paused to tighten a string. "You," said the Master,--"you have studied composition?" "Only a little." "You feel no gift in that line?" "No, not at all." "It is only to play?" "Yes, for the present."