many a small attention fell to the Herr Kreutzer and his pretty,
gentle-mannered, dark-haired, big-eyed Anna of which the landlady knew
nothing, and many a dream of romance did the smutted slavey's small,
sad eyes see in the kitchen fire on lonely evenings while she was
waiting for the last lodger to come in before she went to bed behind
the kindlings-bin. And the central figures of these dreams were,
always, the beautiful young German girl and her dignified,
independent, shabby, courteous old father.

In the small orchestra where Kreutzer played, he made no friends among
the other musical performers; when the manager of the dingy little
theatre politely tried to pump him as to details of his history he
managed to evade all answers in the least illuminating, although he
never failed to do so with complete politeness.

All that really was known of him was that he had arrived in London,
years ago, with only two possessions which he seemed to value, and,
indeed, but two which were worth valuing. One of these, of course, was
his exquisite young daughter, then a little child; the other was his
wonderful old flute. The daughter he secluded with the jealous care of
a far-eastern parent; the flute he played upon with an artistic skill
unequalled in the history of orchestras in that small theatre.

With it he could easily have found a place in the best orchestra in
London, but, apparently, he did not care to offer such a band his
services. On the one or two occasions when a "cruising listener" for
the big orchestras came to the little theatre, heard the old man's
masterful performance, found himself enthralled by it and made the
marvelous flute-player a rich offer, the old man refused peremptorily
even to talk the matter over with him--to the great delight of the