music. Must I say more? Come, come, for me!"

"Ah, then--for you!"

He raised the old flute to his lips and settled it beneath the thatch
of whitened hair which covered his large, sensitive mouth. He took a
little breath of preparation. Then he closed his eyes and played.

Such music as came from that flute! It was as if the "sweet birds
singing in his heart" had risen and were perched, all twittering and
cooing, chirping, carolling upon his lips. And all they sang about was
love--love--love--a father's love for his delightful daughter. Sweet
and pure and wholly lovely was the melody which filled the room and
held the charming woman it was meant for spellbound; held the little
slavey from the grime of London as one hypnotized upon her chair; sang
its way out of the window, down into the grimy court between this
dingy tenement and the whole row of dingy tenements which faced the
other street, and made a dozen little slum-bred children pause there
in their play, in wonder and delight. Ah, how Kreutzer played the
flute, that day, for his beloved Anna!

"Ah, when you play," said she, as with a smile, he laid the wonderful
old instrument upon the shelf again, "it is your life, your soul--you
put all into the old flute!"

"Yes, Anna; and to-day it was far more. It was my love for you--that
was the greatest part of it; and there were sweet memories of my
native land." The fervor of his playing, more than the effort of it,
had exhausted him. He sat down somewhat wearily, with a long sigh.
"But we will not speak of our native land, my Anna," he said sadly.