After that the old gentleman kept a strict eye on Aurora, and very soon he became satisfied of two things: First, that Aurora was sincerely in love with the bassoon; and, second, that the bassoon cared nothing for Aurora. That Aurora loved the bassoon was evidenced by her demeanor when in his presence—her steadfast eyes, her parted lips, her heaving bosom, her piteous sighs, her flushed cheeks, and her varying emotions as his tones changed, bore unimpeachable testimony to the sincerity of her passion. That the bassoon did not care for Aurora was proved by his utter disregard of her feelings, for though he might be tender this moment he was harsh the next—though pleading now he spurned her anon; and so, variable and fickle and false as the winds, he kept Aurora in misery and hysterics about half the time.
One morning the old gentleman entered the theatre while the orchestra was rehearsing.
"Who plays the bassoon?" he asked, in an imperative tone.
"Ich!" said a man with a bald head and gold spectacles.
"Your name?" demanded the old gentleman.
"Otto Baumgarten," replied he of the bald head and gold spectacles.
"Then, Otto Baumgarten," said the father, "I will give you one hundred dollars for your bassoon."
"Mein Gott!" said Herr Baumgarten, "dat bassoon gost me not half so much fon dot!"
"Never mind!" replied the old gentleman. "Take the money and give me the bassoon."
Herr Baumgarten did not hesitate a moment. He clutched at the gold pieces, and while he counted them Aurora's father was hastening up the street with the bassoon under his arm. Aurora saw him coming, and she recognized the idol of her soul; his silver-plated keys were not to be mistaken. With a cry of joy she met her father in the hallway, snatched the bassoon to her heart, and covered him with kisses.