"A whole fortnight," she answered, "but"--glancing wistfully at her violin-case--"you've had such hard work to-day, I know, if you've been to Pynes; perhaps it would be better to put it off." But Mr Goodwin would not hear of this: it would refresh him; it would put the other lessons out of his head; they would try over the last sonata he had given Delia to practise. "Did you make anything of it?" he asked. "It is rather difficult." Delia's face, which until now had been full of smiles and happiness, clouded over mournfully. "Oh, Professor," she cried, "I'm in despair about my practising. If I could get some more clear time to it, I know I could get on. But it's always the same; the days get frittered up into tiny bits with things which don't seem to matter, and I feel I don't make any way; just as I am getting a hard passage right, I have to break off." This was evidently not a new complaint to Mr Goodwin. "Well, well, my dear," he said, kindly, "we will try it over together, and see how we get on; I daresay it is better than you think." Delia quickly collected the tea-things and carried them into the kitchen, to prevent any chance of Mrs Cooper clattering and banging about the room during the lesson; then she took out her violin, put her music on the stand, and began to play, without more ado; the Professor leaning back in his chair meanwhile, with closed eyes, and ears on the alert to detect faults or passages wrongly rendered. As he sat there, perfectly still, a calm expression came into his face, which made him for the time look much younger than was usually the case. He was not a very old man, but past troubles had left their traces in deep lines and wrinkles, and his hair was quite white; only his eyes preserved that look of eternal youth which is sometimes granted to those whose thoughts have always been unselfish, kindly, and generous. Delia played on, halting a little over difficult passages, and as she played, the Professor's face changed with the music, showing sometimes an agony of anxiety during an intricate bit, and relaxing into a calm smile when she got to smooth water again. Once, as though urged by some sudden impulse, he rose and began to stride up and down the room; but when she saw this, Delia dropped her bow, and said in a warning voice, "Now, Professor!" when he at once resumed his seat, and waited patiently until she had finished. "It won't do, Delia," he said; "you've got the idea, but you can't carry it out." "Oh, I know," she replied, mournfully. "I know how bad it is, and the worst of it is, that I can hear how it ought to be all the time." "No," he said, quickly, "that's not the worst of it; that's the best of it. If you were satisfied with it as it is, you would be a hopeless pupil. But you've something of the true artist in you, Delia. The true artist, you know, is never satisfied."