Mr Goodwin's glance rested on his enthusiastic pupil with a little amusement. "It's rather late in the day for me to consider the question, isn't it?" he said. "Didn't you ever want to go away from Dornton and play to people who understand what you mean," asked Delia, impatiently. "Instead of playing the organ in Saint Mary's and teaching me, you might be a famous musician in London, with crowds of people flocking to hear you." "Perhaps," said the Professor, quietly; "who knows?" "Then," she continued, dropping her arms and turning to him with sudden determination, "then, oh, Professor, why _didn't_ you go?" The question had been in her mind a very long time: now it was out, and she was almost frightened by her own rashness. Mr Goodwin, however, seemed neither surprised nor annoyed. "Well, Delia," he answered, with a gentle shake of the head, "I suppose two things have kept me in Dornton--two very strong things--poverty and pride. I had my chance once, but it came in a shape I couldn't bring myself to accept. `There is a tide in the affairs of men,' you know, and if one neglects it--" He broke off and bent over his violin, which he had taken up from the ground. "Of course," said Delia, looking at him with great affection, "I'm glad you didn't go, for my own sake. You and music make Dornton bearable." "You always speak so disdainfully of poor Dornton," said Mr Goodwin, drawing his bow softly across his violin. "Now, I've known it longer than you, and really, when I look back, I've been very happy. Dornton has given me the best any place has to give--people to love and care for. After Prissy's marriage, there were some lonely days, to be sure. I could not feel very happy about that, for she seemed to be taken out of my life altogether, and there came sadder days still when she died. You were only a little toddling child then, Delia, and yet it seemed a short while before we began to be friends; and"--holding out his hand to her--"we've been friends ever since, haven't we? So, you see, I ought not to be ungrateful to Dornton." "And now," added Delia, with an effort, "there is Anna, your grandchild; perhaps you will make her famous, though you wouldn't be famous yourself." Mr Goodwin shook his head. "Anna will never be famous in that way," he said. "She has a sweet, affectionate manner, but there's nothing that reminds me of her mother at all, or of our family. It's quite an effort to realise that she is Prissy's child. It's a very curious feeling." "Have you seen her often?" asked Delia. "Only twice. I don't at all suppose, as matters stand, that I shall ever see much of her. I am so busy, you see, and she tells me her aunt has all sorts of plans for her--lessons, and so on." "But," said Delia, rather indignantly, "she _ought_ to come and see you often."