In a little town in Italy, there once lived an old violin maker, whose sole pride and happiness was in the perfect instruments which he had made. He had, indeed, a son, or rather a stepson, for his wife had been a pretty widow with this one child when he married her a year before.

Pedro was a dark little fellow, with great deep eyes which seemed to hold a world of feeling and sometimes sadness. He idolised his mother, but shrank from his father with a feeling of instinctive dislike. Perhaps the old man noticed this, though he was so absorbed in his work and in directing his careless assistants that he seemed entirely oblivious to his surroundings.

The child was errand-boy for the little shop, and all his tasks were patiently and cheerfully done. Occasionally, one of the workmen would pat him on the head, and he distinctly remembered one day when the lady next door, gave him a piece of candy.

Before he and his mother came to live in the little shop, he had never seen a violin, and even now he could not be said to have heard one, for neither his father nor any of the workmen knew how to play;—they were quite content with putting the bridge in place, leaving the strings to be adjusted in the neighbouring town where the instruments found a ready sale.

One day, the last touch was given to an unusually fine instrument, and in a moment of pride, the old man fitted it with strings. He placed it under his chin and touched the strings softly with the bow. Faulty though the touch was, the answer was melody—a long sweet chord.

Pedro's eyes grew darker, and his little face was fearlessly upturned to the man who held the singer of that wonderful song. In the ecstasy of the moment, his foot touched a valuable piece of wood upon the floor.

Crack! It became two pieces instead of one, and with a curse and a blow, the trembling child was pushed, head foremost, into his own little room. A moment later he heard the key turn in the lock. Pale and frightened, he sank into a corner, but the memory of the sweetness was with him still and in his soul was the dawn of unspeakable light.

All was silent in the shop now, but shortly he heard the busy hum of voices and the old confused sound. Then above the din, the violin sounded again. He listened in wonder. That single chord had been a revelation, and as a sculptor sees in a formless stone the future realisation of a marble dream, so Pedro, guided unerringly by that faulty strain, saw through break and discord, the promise of a symphony.

He fell asleep that night haunted still by that strange sweet sound, and dreamed that it had been his fingers to which the strings had answered. His fingers? He awoke with an intense longing in his childish breast. Oh, to touch that dear brown thing! Oh, to hear again the whisper of the music!

Though the sun had risen he was still in a dream, and, mingled with the notes of the lark above his window, was the voice of the violin.

Presently his stepfather appeared in the doorway, and with more than usual unkindness in his tone ordered him away on an errand. Pedro gladly went, and all that day tried ineffectually to conciliate the angry man by patience, gentleness, and obedience. Night came, and though weary, he was sent on a still longer journey. He started with an important message from his father to the home of the man who was to furnish wood for a lot of new violins. He had often been to the shop, but it was late now, the man must have gone home, and his house was much farther away.

He dared not complain, however, and trudged wearily on. But with all his fatigue, his heart was light, for he fancied there might be music in the home toward which he was hastening. Some day, perhaps, he might hear the blessed chords again! He would wait. Through his childish fancy flitted a dream of a symphony—the unthought melody which might be sleeping in those broken chords.

He delivered his message safely, and the man kindly showed him a short cut home. It was very late, and the streets were still, but he was not afraid. He passed house after house that was gayly lighted, and looked longingly at the revelry within, but he hurried onward till he came to a little house in a side street.

Hark! He stopped suddenly. Out of the darkness came the sound of music—was it a violin? Yes, no, it could not be. He crept closer to the cottage. Then a burst of harmony came into his consciousness—long, sweet, silvery notes; a glad rush of sound that brought tears to his eyes—a delicate half hushed whisper, and then the twinkle of a brook, with the twilight gentleness of a shadow. Clearer and stronger the music grew, and the child's breath came in quick, short gasps. The brook was a river now, he could hear the swaying of the trees in the forest; the heart of the wind was in the music, and on it swept in glad resistless cadence, from the brook to the river, then down to the sea. A pause, a long low note, then a glorious vision of blue, as into the rush of the song, there came the sweet, unutterable harmonies of the ocean.

He was in ecstasy; he scarcely dared to move. Oh, could he but see whence the music came! Could he look for a moment only, upon the face of the master! The moon came out from behind a cloud, and the child looked up. At the open window he saw an old man with deep-set eyes, a kindly smile, and long white hair that hung down to his shoulders. He held a violin in his hand, but the picture needed not this touch to tell the child who it was that had made this wonderful music, for he felt that he now looked upon the face of the master.

With a sigh, the old man again placed the instrument in position, and drew the bow across the strings. The boy trembled. In slow, measured sweetness the music came—a deep wonderful harmony that held him spellbound. There was a tender cadence that swayed the player's soul, and into the theme crept the passionate pain of one who had loved and lost.

The child knew that the man was suffering—that music like that could only come from an aching heart. With double notes, in a minor key, the master played on; then the violin slipped to the floor unheeded, and the old man laid his head on the window sill, and wept like a child.

Pedro crept away; he could bear no more. The glory had entered into his soul. He went noiselessly to bed, but he heard still that marvellous music and saw again the pain-shadowed face of the master.

Oh, could he but touch the magic strings! Could he but play one note of the wondrous song! An idea seized him—he would try sometime. In a transport of joy he fell asleep, and dreamed all night long of the heavenly strains. He saw the clear deep blue of the ocean, he heard the wind symphonies in the forest, and always, too, before him was that white suffering face.

The next day he was scarcely himself. He moved about as if he still slept, while his eyes were unusually sad and thoughtful. At night he could not sleep, and after making sure that every one else was in deep slumber, he slipped quietly out into the shop. The moon showed him where to go, and at length he picked up the new violin which had taken so long to finish, and which was the finest his father had ever made. Where should he go? Outdoors, assuredly. He went softly out into the moonlight and down to the brook which was some distance from the house.

The silence, the beauty, the witchery of it all, was overwhelming. A gentle breeze swayed the tree tops, and, from the instrument in his hand, drew forth Æolian music. He started, placed it in position, and drew the bow across the wind-swept strings. His touch awakened the sleeping voice, and through his soul surged again the long, sweet chords that had made him glad, and shown him through the broken bits of melody, the grandeur of the symphony. Tenderly, tremblingly, he touched the strings again, and another chord, a minor, struck deep into his heart.

Without thought or knowledge of the art he still blundered on, knowing naught save that it was his fingers that made a wild, delirious, rapturous sound, and seeing only the remembered vision of the master's face.

Conscious of nothing else, he did not see that the sun had risen. Suddenly he looked up. His father stood before him with a strange expression on his face. The terrified child dropped the instrument to ward off a blow, but the father said, with a tremor in his voice: "Is it so, my boy? Are you then a musician? You shall have lessons; I shall give you a violin; we go to-day to see the master. Ah, the music! It is most wonderful!"

The boy was dumb with astonishment. To learn? And who was the master? That afternoon he dressed himself in his best garments, which were worn only on festal occasions, and with his father went on the gladdest errand of his life.

The master! Could it be? The child's heart almost stopped beating. Yes, down the little street they turned and went up to the door of the cottage. He could not speak.

Presently he found himself in a plainly furnished little room, and heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and Pedro looked up to see those deep-set eyes that seemed to smile down at him.

The father rose, and bowing low, he said: "Signor, I would like my son to play the violin—you are a teacher—he will be a musician. I have no money, Signor, but if you teach my boy how to play, I will make you a violin—the finest in the world."

The master was about to refuse; his old violin was a good one, and he did not like to teach. He turned away hastily, but he caught a glimpse of the child's uplifted face. His soul was in his eyes, and in their depths the great artist saw an unutterable longing. He was touched. "Child," he said, "would you like to play?"

He laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. The touch and the kindly tone thrilled him unspeakably. To play? To hear again that infinite music? Glad tears rushed to his eyes and his only answer was a sob.

"Ah, yes," the man's voice was tender. "You love it; I will teach you. Come to-morrow at this hour and we shall begin."

Pedro went home, wild with delight. To play! To see the master's face! Ah, it was too much! All night long he dreamed of that delicious melody, and the dear old head with its crown of silver hair that seemed like a benediction.

His father gave him a little old violin. To him? Was it all his own? "And when you can play, my boy," he said, "you shall have the 'Beauty'."

Pedro's first lessons were a revelation. His face was a study for a painter, and the teacher saw that he had before him the promise of an artist. He gave himself willingly to the task and soon learned to dearly love his eager pupil.

And Pedro? No task was too hard, no study too difficult, no practice too long and tedious, if he might please his good old friend; and even while he struggled with the difficulties of technique, he never lost hope or patience, for before him always like a guiding star, was the serene white face of the master.

So the years went by, and all Italy was being searched for the finest wood that grew—for the sharpest tools. The wood for the master's violin must be well seasoned—it would take a long time—the longer, the better. For centuries the old tree had listened to wind, and river, and bird; the sounds of the forest were interwoven with its fibre, and now it must give up its buried music in answer to the strings of the violin.

The childish stature was changed to that of manhood, and still the teacher found in Pedro a devoted pupil. The youth had developed in many ways, but the artist seemed to be little changed. A little more bent, perhaps, but the same sweet soul.

Pedro had the "Beauty" but the master's violin was not yet finished. He never asked for it, never spoke of it; in the delight of Pedro's achievement and greater promise, perhaps he had forgotten the promise of the old violin maker.

But the old man was growing feeble. A change was coming and the young man felt it too. He went one day for his lesson, and the housekeeper met him at the door with her finger on her lip. Hush! The teacher was ill. But he would like to see Pedro for a few minutes.

He went in and spoke tenderly to the old friend, whose eyes shone with so much love for his pupil—his boy—as he still called him. Pedro could not stay long—it was too sad, and the tears were choking his utterance. He went home with a sorrow-laden heart.

His father said to him as he entered: "The master's violin is at last finished, my son. See?"

He held up a beautifully fashioned instrument.

"You shall take it to him to-morrow. Ah, its tone! You will play?"

"No, father, I cannot. The master, he is ill—dying—perhaps. Oh! I cannot."

The old violin maker laid the instrument gently in its case. There were tears in his own eyes—"The teacher! Well, we must all die," and he turned to his work.

Night came, and Pedro tossed restlessly on his couch. About midnight there was a rap on the front door of the shop.

He went quietly and opened it. There was a messenger from the old housekeeper. The teacher was sinking fast. The physician said he could not last until morning. He was out of pain, and he knew the end was near. Would Pedro come and play for him? The night seemed so long! Pedro dressed himself hurriedly. Oh, if he should be too late! As he went through the shop he passed the table where lay the master's violin. A sob came into his throat as he lifted it from the case. He would play that.

Out into the still street he went with almost breathless haste. The moon shone gloriously, and the air was sweet with spring. He reached the cottage and went softly into the little room at the end of the hall where the man lay, looking like a piece of marble statuary, but still breathing. Pedro bent over him and looked lovingly into his face.

The master spoke with difficulty—"You are come, then, my friend—my boy?" The same old tenderness! Pedro could not answer. "You will play to me? The end is so near, the night seems so long—play to me, my boy."

The feeble man turned his face to the open window, which was on a level with his couch. With a sigh of content, he laid his head upon the sill. Pedro started. The position, the moonlight, oh, that far-off night! Again he was a child crouching in the darkness, and in the old ecstasy beneath that very window—he heard again that infinitely sad music, and saw again the white suffering face.

He placed the instrument in position; step by step, unerringly, he followed the notes of the marvellous melody, for was not the musician before him, teaching him how to play it?

The grey head turned towards the player—a strange new light in his eyes. But seeing only the vision of his childhood the young man played on and on, and somehow into the symphony crept all the love and sadness of a life time. As he played he threw his whole soul into the music. Oh, the indescribable sweetness of the master's violin! At last his vision faded, and he saw the massive head drop on the same old sill—he heard once more the sobs that come with tears.

The music ended with a broken chord, and he looked up—to find his friend gazing at him with ineffable happiness. "My boy, where did you learn that? It is one of my own compositions—I have never written it all down—where—where did you learn it?"

Pedro drew his chair to the couch, and, clasping the withered hand in both his own that were strong and young, and beating with life, he told the story. So long ago that he was but a child, he had heard the artist play it. He had known even then that it was born of sorrow, and to-night that far-off time came back into the moonlight, with the master's face. He had not played from memory only, for the teacher had shown him some of the notes and he had but followed.

The man feebly raised his head and said brokenly: "My boy, you are right; I had a sorrow. You are young, but you will understand."

No longer master and pupil, they were now friend and friend.

"I loved her—the best of all the world. But with the end only, came the peace which had been denied me in life. She loved my music and I played to her when she lay dying. She did not love me as I loved her—I was her friend, always; 'her dear, dear friend,' she used to say.

"But," and the voice grew stronger, "my arms were around her when the angels came—with my kisses on her lips she went to her grave—there are violets there—she loved them so—for thirty years I have watched them. Her heart has blossomed into them, and they come from her to me.

"She was so pure—so sweet—and her last word was for me. Such a little word! With her last strength, she put her arms around me, and drew my face down to hers—such a little word—it was a whisper—Sweetheart! She loved me then—I know she did. Oh, love, could I break the bonds of the grave!" He was silent for a moment. "Now you know—you understand. You will play it again."

The night was deepening toward the dawn. Once more Pedro took the violin—and played the melody, instinct with the old, old story of love and pain. The man's eyes were closed; he lay contentedly and peacefully as a child. As the boy played, the darkness waned, and as he finished, not with a broken chord, but with a minor that some way seemed completion, the first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky.

The master turned to the window again: "See, the day breaks." The sky grew gold and crimson, but a more celestial light seemed to live around the grey head, as if, in rifts of heaven, he saw her waiting for him.

He stretched his trembling hands to the east, and whispered: "Yes, I am coming! Coming! You love me then? Ah, yes! Beyond the sunset—the dawn; I am coming—coming—coming—such a little word—Sweetheart!"

A look of unspeakable rapture; it was transfiguration; then the deep blue eyes were closed upon the scenes of earth. The first ray of the sun shot into the little room and rested with loving touch upon the couch. The sobbing old housekeeper came toward them, but Pedro motioned her away.

He knelt at the bedside, his own face shining with something of that celestial glow, and man though he was, with quivering lips he kissed again and again the dear white face of the master.