"Candles!" he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.

"Yes--shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?"

"Candles!" he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a
few piercing, preparatory notes.

"Yes, little Christmas-tree candles--blue ones and red ones, in boxes
--Shall you, Father?"

"We'll see--if I see any--"

"But SHALL you?" she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his
vagueness.

But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo
broke forth, wild, shrill, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The
child's face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went
out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise.

The shrill, rapid movement of the piccolo music seemed to possess the
air, it was useless to try to shut it out. The man went on playing
to himself, measured and insistent. In the frosty evening the sound
carried. People passing down the street hesitated, listening. The
neighbours knew it was Aaron practising his piccolo. He was esteemed
a good player: was in request at concerts and dances, also at swell
balls. So the vivid piping sound tickled the darkness.

He played on till about seven o'clock; he did not want to go out too
soon, in spite of the early closing of the public houses. He never