"I know what you're thinking," said the Maestro, smoothing Kirk's dark hair. "You're hating the thought of leaving Applegate Farm. But perhaps the winter wind will sing you a different tune. Do you not think so, Mrs. Sturgis?"
Mrs. Sturgis nodded. "Their experience doesn't yet embrace all the phases of this," she said.
"Yes," said the Maestro, "some day before the snows come, you will come to me. And we'll fill that big house with music, and songs, and laughing--yes, and work, too. Ah, please!" said the Maestro, quite pathetically.
Felicia put her hand out to his.
"We will come, dear Maestro," she said, "when this little fire will not keep us warm any longer."
"Thank you," said the Maestro.
From behind them came murmurous talk of ships--Ken and Martin discussing the Celestine and her kind, and the magic ports below the Line. Kirk whispered suddenly to the Maestro, who protested.
"Oh, please!" begged Kirk, his plea becoming audible. "Really it's a nice thing. I know Ken makes fun of it, but I have learned a lot from it, haven't I? Please, Maestro!"
"Very well, naughty one," said the musician; "if your mother will forgive us."
He bowed to her, and then moved with Kirk into the unlit part of the room where the little organ stood. With a smile of tender amusement, he sat down at the odd little thing and ran his fingers up and down the short, yellowed keyboard. Then, with Kirk lost in a dream of rapt worship and listening ecstasy beside him, he began to play. And his touch made of the little worn melodeon a singing instrument, glorified beyond its own powers by the music he played.