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 trust of his own stubbornness saved him from a repetition of the old wordless estrangement. During the remainder of the summer vacation he divided his time between music and reading. His progress in the former was becoming rapid as his hands grew broader, and the excitement of being able to play Chopin scherzos, which Aunt Verona assured him nobody in Hale's Turning and very few people even in Halifax could have played, made him willing to practise five or six hours a day. In consideration of this extra application he was relieved of all household tasks, and even abandoned Mr. Silva's cow.

Aunt Verona had had Mr. Silva bring down a crate of books from the attic to swell the list in the playroom. There were novels and collections of poetry in German and French and English, text-books on harmony, treatises in philosophy, books of memoirs—a stimulating miscellany. On the title-page of a beautifully bound volume entitled Confessions d'un Vieux Musicien, there was an inscription which read: "A la gracieuse Verona Windell, souvenir amical et affectueux de l'auteur, qui n'oubliera jamais ces soirées de Munich et de Vienne. A l'admirable artiste tout bonheur et tout succès!"

Here was a field rich in possibilities. Yet he knew that a direct question would merely have the effect of vexing Aunt Verona or driving her into one of her brooding reveries. It was thrilling to learn that Aunt Verona had known a musician who had written a book, thrilling to know that she had been a person of consequence in Munich and Vienna, thrilling to know that she had been thought of as an admirable artist. He knew that Aunt Verona could play superbly, though he had never heard her, except for occasional phrases when she was teaching him how to produce certain effects. It was all intriguing and heart-warming, and with glowing eyes he plunged into the volume, taking care to read it in the play-