Peter had given a wide invitation to the village folk to come, and he promised to teach them whatever they most desired to know. He laughed at his audacity but was not ashamed of it, for he had a sincere purpose, and hoped to lead many to the fountain, from which he drew refreshment and inspiration.
To-night he seemed to be tired. When the nightly tasks were over, he usually read aloud for half an hour; he liked to send his scholars away with the rhymes of Pope, or the quaint prose of Malory, or the great verse of Shakespeare ringing in their ears. But this evening he read listlessly, although the book was the noble and joyous history of King Arthur.
When all had gone, he still sat dreamily looking at the open page.
"Play to me," said Barbara, taking the book from his hand.
"Play! What shall I play?"
She told him how she had heard his flute as she came along the forest road.
He took the instrument, and sitting in the shadow, played the haunting little melody, that had held her spell-bound earlier in the evening.
"Is it a song, Peter?" she asked.
"Yes, I made it."
"What about, Peter?"