Lockwin sits on a sofa with his pet nestled at the side. What a sense
of rest is this! How near heaven is this! He looks down on his little
boy and has but one wish--that he might be across the room to behold
the picture. Perhaps the man is extravagantly fond of that view of
curly head, white face, dark brow and large, clear eyes!

Would the violinist make such an effect if his wife were not there to
strike those heavy opening chords of that "Faust" fantasie?

"Will they play 'Back to Our Mountains?'" whispers the child.

"Keep still, Davy," the man says, himself silenced by a great rendition.

"The doctor's horse is sick," whispers Davy, hoarsely.

"Yes, I know," says the man. "Bravo, professor, bravo! You are a
great artist."

"But the doctor's both horses is sick," insists Davy.

"Bravo! professor, bravo!"

Now comes the sweetest of cradle-songs, the professor with damper on
his strings, the professor's wife scarcely touching the piano.

The strain ends. The man is in tears--not the tears of an orator. He
glances at the child and the great eyes are likewise dim. "Kiss me,
Davy!"

But it is as if Davy were too hard at work with an article. He must