“Vell, here it iss.”
For a moment Dorothy was awed as she gazed at the rather ordinary-looking violin.
Could this be the great Cremona of which she had heard so much? This—this—why, this looked more like a ten-dollar fiddle picked up in a pawnshop!
She knew, however, that the Herr would not deceive her, so she took the instrument tenderly in her hands while the old German watched her intently. When he saw the look of reverence that crossed her face, he seemed pleased.
“You vould like to try it, yes, Miss Dorothy?”
“Oh, Herr, if I only may!”
“Surely, surely. Iss it stingy I am, do you t’ink? Surely you may try it, my leetle girl. Here—use my own bow, too. It iss well resined, und in good shape for to make fine moosic. Now, let me hear you play.”
Not until she had drawn the bow across the strings and heard the deep, sweet tones of the old Cremona, did Dorothy realize that in her hands she held an instrument constructed by one of the finest of the old masters—an instrument that had come down, perfectly preserved through the ages, growing better with each passing year.
As the girl played one of the simple pieces which lay uppermost on the piano-rack, the big living-room was filled to overflowing with matchless melody. So clear and pure were the tones that Dorothy could hardly believe her ears. Was it indeed she who made such delightful music, or was she dreaming?
Herr Deichenberg’s voice brought her back to her normal state of mind.