The violin would swing round to the left, and she would lose sight of her elbow under it. There was nothing to do but to straighten up till the instrument stood in a line with her fat little turned up nose, and that elbow was in sight again. Then, that right wrist! How it did ache with the long, slow motions with the bow. And her limbs grew stiff with standing in one position till they fairly ached. If the violin was heavy, she would not mind it, and if she was tired, she would keep her eyes fixed on the strings and see that the bow lay flat and square on them as it went up and down, up and down, from the tip to the handle, over and over, again and again. Whatever happened, she would keep on. She was going to play. This was the way to learn. She would have patience. At home the same thing was repeated. Three hours practice every day with the dumb violin. And not only every day in the week, Sundays and all, but every week. Three whole months passed away, and then they said she had learned the positions, and the right motions. She could have some rosin on her bow and begin to play. This was progress. She was really getting on. Now she was to have some music. Nothing but the very dullest kinds of exercises; still, it was music, or something like it. Long sustained notes by the hour. The exercises were all written out with a pen by her master. Nothing but long slow notes. Not very interesting, certainly. She would not have agreed with you. To get a good tone, to make one pure, smooth note was worth the trying for, and she was content. The bow hardly moved, so slowly did she draw it up and down. The right arm stretched out to the full length, and then slowly back again, while the wrist bent slowly and gracefully. If she obtained nothing else, she would have a strong, clear tone, and learn to make a grand, full sweep with her bow. Speed and brilliancy would come in good time. Strength, power, and purity of tone were the things worth trying to reach. She would have no feeble, short strokes, but the wide, bold movements of a master hand. As the weeks grew to months, her fingers and arms gained in power and her child’s violin was exchanged for a larger and finer one, to her great joy and satisfaction. Slowly and patiently she crept along. By day and by night the beloved violin was ever near her. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes late at night, when ever her teacher could find the time, she listened to his instructions and played over the endless exercises. Seven hours practice every day. Three lessons a week; nothing allowed to interfere. Sleep, eat, a little exercise in the open air, practice and lessons, lessons and practice. Such was her young artist life. The lessons gradually increased in variety and difficulty. Scales in every key, running passages of every imaginable character; and with it all not a single piece, song, or pretty melody of any kind. Ten months of finger exercises; nearly a year of dry scales.