"Why don't you make money like papa?" says Madelon; "then you
could play what you liked, you know. We are very rich
sometimes."

The old German screwed up his queer, kind, ugly face.

"It--it's not my way," he said drily. "As for money, I might
have had plenty by this time, if I had not run away from home
when I was a boy, because I preferred being a poor musician to
a rich merchant. Money is not the only nor the best thing in
the world, my little lady."

M. Linders apparently saw no danger to Madelon's principles in
these new friendships, or else, perhaps, he was bent on
carrying out his plan of letting her get used to things; at
any rate, he did not interfere with her spending as much time
as she liked with both painter and musician; and every day
through the winter she grew fonder of the society of the old
violinist. He was a lonely man, who lived with his music and
his books, cared little for company, and had few friends; but
he liked to see Madelon flitting about his dusky room,
carrying with her bright suggestions of the youth, and gaiety,
and hopefulness he had almost forgotten. He talked to her,
taught her songs, played to her as much as she liked, and
often gave her and her father orders for the theatre to which
he belonged, where, with delight, she would recognise his
familiar face as he nodded and smiled at her from the
orchestra. He instructed her, too, in music; made her learn
her notes, and practise on the jangling old piano, and even,
at her particular request, to scrape a little on the violin;