From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Some are wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences. Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through the dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a single star. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef of Pain. It seemed as though Lynn's heart were rising in an effort to escape. "I must keep it down," he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut, bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet, there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully. Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting him to the last, calling his love an insult. "Machine--clod--mountebank"-- the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again. It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank? That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words? Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing. No one knew--no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself. He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His mother's keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be alone a great deal--outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how many more would follow in its train. Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr Kaufmann's, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his lesson--that he had a headache, or something of the kind--that he had hurt his wrist, perhaps. He hoped that Fraeulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered his ring. "So," said the Master, "you are once more late." "No," answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, "I just came to tell you that I couldn't take my lesson to-day. I don't think," he stammered, "that I can ever take any more lessons." "And why?" demanded the Master. "Come in!" Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed bright colours. One look at Lynn's face had assured Herr Kaufmann that something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil. "So," said the Master. "Mine son, is it not well with you?" Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. "Not very," he answered in a low tone. "Miss Iris," said the Master, "she will have gone away?" It was like the tearing of a wound. "Yes," replied Lynn, almost in a whisper, "she went this morning."