The next week was a pleasant one at Bellvieu. Molly Breckenridge secured the consent of her father to remain for that long, and the girls explored every nook and corner of the old mansion and its grounds. Even the big, old-fashioned barn came in for its share of their attention.

Horseback riding is one of the chief attractions at Bellvieu. Both girls were good riders, and very fond of horses. Jim was not so anxious, but usually accompanied them when they ventured away from home.

Long rides into the country early in the morning, or in the cool of the evening, were enjoyed to the utmost. Gerald came over frequently and the big automobile served to give them many pleasant hours.

The first lesson with Herr Deichenberg had been postponed until after Molly’s departure, though that young lady was not aware of it. The Herr refused to have the attention of his pupils distracted by visitors, so, while impatient to begin his labors, he consented to a postponement until Bellvieu should be clear of company and affairs running along in their natural groove.

The day for Molly’s departure finally rolled around, and at the station to see her off, besides Dorothy and Jim, were Gerald and Aurora. Molly waved a last farewell from the car window as the train moved out of the station.

In Dorothy’s ears still rang her promise:

“If papa consents, I will spend Christmas with you at old Bellvieu.”

To which Dorothy had replied:

“Of course, he’ll consent, for you’re to invite him, too.”

This pleased Molly greatly and she had promised to write her chum what the judge’s decision was.

The first violin lesson was set for the morning after Molly’s departure, Herr Deichenberg having kindly consented to come to Bellvieu, greatly to the delight of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty.

Dorothy was eager to display her ability, and, feeling every confidence in herself, was not the least bit flustered when she met Herr Deichenberg at the door and ushered him into the big drawing-room.

“It seems real good to see you again, Miss Dorothy,” the old professor said. “I have been t’inking about you a great deal vhile you have been avay, und I am really anxious to have you back—really und truly anxious.”

“It was good of you to come to Bellvieu, Herr. I feel that I should have gone to your studio.”

“Ah! Don’t mention dat. I—”

“But I am much younger than you. I can afford to exercise myself a little if it will save you trouble.”

“You are younger, yes. Yet, I am not as old in body as in looks. I valk pretty straight, yet, eh, Miss Dorothy?” and laughing, he chucked her playfully under the chin.

“You walk with military precision, Herr, except on a few occasions when you forget yourself. Then I have noticed a slight stoop to the shoulders,” she replied.

“Ah, vhen I forget myself, yes—und I fear dat is very often, eh?”

“No, no; I think you do remarkably well.”

“Do you, really? Dat iss very nice of you to say. If you vill pay me all de time such compliments, I t’ink you need not come to my studio at all. I vill be happy to come to your great home, here.” He looked out through the window, where the magnificent sweep of lawn, with its flowers, trees and hedges, made a pretty picture. “It iss beautiful—beautiful!”

While they were talking Aunt Betty, attired in a charming morning gown, well-becoming to one of her age, entered the room.

Herr Deichenberg arose with a broad smile to greet her.

“Ah, here iss de mistress of de house,” he said to Dorothy, then turned to Aunt Betty, who had extended her hand with the words:

“Welcome again to Bellvieu, Herr Deichenberg.”

“T’ank you, madame. It iss very kind of you. Really, if I sit here much longer, admiring de flowers und de trees, I shall forget dat I have come to give dis young lady a moosic lesson, und dat I shall have another pupil vaiting for me in de studio at eleven.”

“But it is well that you occasionally forget your labors, Herr.”

“Ah, yes, but—”

“I know what you are going to say—that you have your living to make.”

“Madame, you have read the sordid t’oughts of an old man who is supposed to have made a great success.”

“And I’m sure you have made a great success. As for the money, Herr, is that any reason you should ruin your health?”

“No, no, madame, but—”

“Ah, Herr,” she interrupted again, “you are becoming too thoroughly imbued with the American spirit, which thinks of nothing more than to catch the dollars as they go rolling past. Then, after they are corralled in a bank, or invested in property, you are not satisfied, but begin to covet more.”

“Madame, you have struck de key-note of it all, I fear. I plead guilty. But I also plead, in extenuation, dat I have a vife to whom I owe a great duty.”

“Ah, yes, a wife! True, true; but did you ever put straight to her the question whether she would prefer to have you slave for money or give her a little more of your time for pleasure?”

“No; but I know vhat she vould say. You are right und I am wrong. But come, Miss Dorothy, de lesson! I have brought with me my own instrument. I vill get it at once.”

Stepping across the room he picked up his violin case and began to unfasten the clasps, while Dorothy watched him with fascinated gaze.

“Oh, Herr,” cried the girl, “you—you didn’t bring your old Cremona?”

“Surely. Vhat you t’ink, dat you are not good enough to be taught on a Cremona, eh?”

“Oh, Herr, you know I didn’t mean that!”

“Of course not,” he laughed. “You meant dat you vould like to see it, maybe?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Vell, here it iss.”

For a moment Dorothy was awed as she gazed at the rather ordinary-looking violin.

Could this be the great Cremona of which she had heard so much? This—this—why, this looked more like a ten-dollar fiddle picked up in a pawnshop!

She knew, however, that the Herr would not deceive her, so she took the instrument tenderly in her hands while the old German watched her intently. When he saw the look of reverence that crossed her face, he seemed pleased.

“You vould like to try it, yes, Miss Dorothy?”

“Oh, Herr, if I only may!”

“Surely, surely. Iss it stingy I am, do you t’ink? Surely you may try it, my leetle girl. Here—use my own bow, too. It iss well resined, und in good shape for to make fine moosic. Now, let me hear you play.”

Not until she had drawn the bow across the strings and heard the deep, sweet tones of the old Cremona, did Dorothy realize that in her hands she held an instrument constructed by one of the finest of the old masters—an instrument that had come down, perfectly preserved through the ages, growing better with each passing year.

As the girl played one of the simple pieces which lay uppermost on the piano-rack, the big living-room was filled to overflowing with matchless melody. So clear and pure were the tones that Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Was it indeed she who made such delightful music, or was she dreaming?

Herr Deichenberg’s voice brought her back to her normal state of mind.

“It iss beautiful—de melody. I did not believe you could do it, even on a Cremona.”

“It is not me, Herr, but this wonderful violin,” the girl cried in admiration.

“Oh, come, now, vhen ve simmer t’ings down to a fine point, de Cremona iss not so different from your own instrument, Miss Dorothy.”

“Oh, Herr, surely you are mistaken. Why, I seem to be dreaming when I am playing on the Cremona.”

“Und vhy iss dat? Because you have made up your mind dat dis iss absolutely de finest violin in de whole vorld, und have prepared yourself to hear somet’ing vhich iss not there. De tones are clear und full, but so are those of your own violin, on vhich you played for me vhen I vass here before.”

Dorothy shook her head in disbelief, unable to appreciate the full truth of his words.

Herr Deichenberg smiled.

“You von’t believe me, eh? Very vell. Let us on with de lesson. I shall convince you at another time.”

“I’m afraid you will have a hard time ever convincing me of that,” the girl replied.

Dorothy’s own violin was tuned, and on this, under the music master’s direction, she ran scales for the better part of an hour—to limber her fingers, Herr Deichenberg said.

“But they are already limber, Herr,” she returned, in a tone of mild protest.

“Vait, vait,” he good-naturedly said. “Vait just a few veeks und den you vill see vhat you shall see. I vill have you doing vhat you Americans call ‘stunts’ on dat violin. Really, it vill surprise you! Your fingers are stiff. See; I vill show you. Now, try dis exercise—here!” He opened one of her music books and pushed the music before her.

“Right there, now. One—two—t’ree! One—two—t’ree!—”

Dorothy swung off into the exercise with apparent ease, but soon reached a difficult scale in the third position. Somehow her fingers would not go where she intended them. She tried it once—twice—then stopped, flushing.

“You see?” said the Herr professor. “If I vant to be mean, I vould say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Oh, Herr, I beg your pardon! I will never dispute your word again—never—never! My fingers are stiff. They are all right for ordinary music in the first and second positions, but the third I can hardly do at all, and I’m sure I have practiced and practiced it.”

“Surely you have practiced it, but never as you shall during de next few veeks. It iss only by constant application to a certain method dat great violin players are made. Dey are expected to accomplish de impossible. Dat may sound rather vague to you, but you vill some day understand vhat I mean.”

“I understand what you mean now, Herr. I find an exercise which it is impossible for me to play. But I keep everlastingly at it until I can play it. In that way I have achieved what seemed to be the impossible.”

“Dat iss it—dat iss it! You catch my idea exactly. Do you t’ink you vill be able to accomplish many of those impossible t’ings?”

“I shall perform every task you set for me, no matter how long or how hard I have to try.”

“Ah, now, dat iss de proper spirit. If all young ladies vere like you vhat a beautiful time de moosic teachers vould have.”

“They would, Herr?”

“Oh, yes; dey vould be so overjoyed dat dey vould be avay on a vacation most of de time.”

“I suppose you have all sorts of pupils, Herr?” said Aunt Betty, who had been an interested listener to the conversation between the girl and the professor.

“Yes; mostly young girls, madame, und to say dat dey are a big trouble iss but expressing it mildly. In fact, dey are de greatest of my troubles. Dey pay me vell, yes, but vhat iss pay vhen you must labor with dem hour after hour to get an idea t’rough their heads? Vy, for example I vill show you. A lady pupil vill valk into my studio, t’row off her t’ings und prepare for a lesson. Vhen I say now you do dis or dat, she vill reply, ‘Oh, Herr, you should not ask of me de impossible!’ Und I try to explain dat it iss only by practice dat she vill ever make a great musician. Den perhaps she vill reply: ‘Vell, if I had known it vass such hard vork maybe I vould not have tried to play,’ und den she heaves such a sigh dat for a moment I really feel ashamed of myself for making her vork so hard. Oh, madame, it iss awful! Sometimes I almost go crazy in my head.” He turned again to Dorothy. “But, come, young lady, back to de lesson, und ve vill soon be t’rough.”

Dorothy nodded her willingness, which caused the Herr professor to smile and nod delightedly at Aunt Betty.

“Dat iss de proper spirit,” he kept repeating, half aloud.

Scale after scale the girl ran over, repeating dozens of times the same notes, until Herr Deichenberg would nod his head that she had played it to his satisfaction. Then on to another and the same performance over again.

Her work won from the Herr the heartiest of commendation, and when he left he told both Dorothy and Aunt Betty that he would look forward to the next lesson with a great deal of pleasure.

Thereafter, twice each week, the Herr came to Bellvieu. He seemed to dearly love the old place, for during her first four weeks of lessons Dorothy was unable to win from him his consent to take her to his home.

Finally, he agreed that the next lesson should be in the studio, but only after considerable pleading on her part.

“I am doing it to please you,” he told her, “for if I have my vay, I vould much rather come to dis beautiful place.”

Dorothy could hardly wait for the time of the visit to come.

The Herr had asked Aunt Betty to accompany her great-niece, to meet Frau Deichenberg, and on the morning in question they set out together in the barouche.

Metty finally drew up on a quiet street before the quaintest-looking little house Dorothy had ever seen. It was not a bungalow, yet about it were certain lines which suggested that type of structure. It was all in one story, with great French windows on two sides, and with trailing vines climbing the porch posts onto the roof in thoroughly wild abandon.

Herr Deichenberg came out to meet them and lead them into the living-room of the house, where Dorothy and Aunt Betty met for the first time Frau Deichenberg, who had been out on the occasion of Aunt Betty’s first visit. The Frau proved to be a kindly German lady who spoke English with even more accent than her distinguished husband.

The welcome to the studio was complete in every way, and as Dorothy went from room to room examining the rare curios and works of art, which the Herr and his wife had gathered from various parts of the world, she felt that her visit had not been in vain.

In the large, well-lighted music room, where the Herr received his pupils, Dorothy found the things of greatest interest. Half a dozen violins were scattered about on the shelves, or lying on the old-fashioned piano, while clocks of every conceivable size and shape, bronze statues from the Far East, and queerly woven baskets from the Pampas, mingled with the Mexican pottery and valuable geological specimens from her own United States.

Finally, when the girl’s curiosity had been thoroughly satisfied, Aunt Betty and Frau Deichenberg were shown into another room and the music master and his pupil began their lesson.

It was not until the lesson was over that the Herr turned to his pupil with a merry twinkle in his eyes and observed:

“You are so fond of moosic, perhaps you do not know dat every year I give a concert in de theater before de opening of de regular season.”

“Oh, yes, I have often heard of your concert,” the girl replied. “I have longed to go to them, but something has always kept me from it.”

“Vell, you are going to my next one.”

“I am? Oh, how good of you, Herr!”

“Yes, it iss very good of me, for there you shall meet one of my most promising pupils.”

“Oh, tell me who it is,” she replied, unable to restrain her curiosity.

“Vell, it iss a secret dat has not yet been vhispered to a soul. But I don’t mind telling you. De name of de young lady iss Miss Dorothy Calvert.”

“Why, Herr Deichenberg, you don’t mean that—?”

Dorothy stopped short. A lump came into her throat and she was unable to continue.

“Dat iss just vhat I mean,” he smiled, reading her thoughts. “You are to play at de concert, vhere you are expected to do both yourself und your moosic teacher proud.”

“Oh, Herr, I hadn’t imagined such an honor would be conferred upon me this year. Why, surely there are other pupils who have more talent and can make a better showing for you than I?”

“My dear young lady, it iss I who shall be de best judge of dat.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Never before have I had a young lady refuse an invitation to play at my concert.”

“Why, Herr, I haven’t refused. You don’t understand me. I—I—”

“Yes, yes. I understand you perfectly—I have surprised you and you have not yet found time to catch your breath. Iss dat not so?”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, no ‘buts.’ I know vhat you vould say. But it is not necessary. I have made up my mind, und once I do dat, I never change.”

“I know, Herr, but—”

“Didn’t I say no ‘buts’? You shall show de people of Baltimore vhat a really fine violinist dey have in their midst.”

“Well, if you insist, of course I shall play. And are you to play my accompaniments?”

“I, my dear young lady? No, no; I shall have my hands full vidout attempting dat. But you shall have a full orchestra at your beck und call to t’under at you vun minute und to help you lull de audience to sleep de next.”

“Herr, you overwhelm me!”

“Such vass not my intention. I am merely telling you vhat I know to be de truth. You are a remarkable girl und nothing I can say vill turn your head. I have tried it und I know. Dat iss vhy I do not hesitate to say it.”

When Dorothy Calvert left Herr Deichenberg’s studio that morning she was the happiest girl in Baltimore.