“I came over just after de Civil War. I was quite a young lad at de time und a goot musician. I had no difficulty in finding employment in New York City, vhere I played in a restaurant orchestra for a number of years. Den I drifted to Vashington, den to Baltimore, vhere I have remained ever since.”
“And have you never been back across the water?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes; once I go back to my old home to see my people. Dat was de last time dat I see my fadder und mudder alive. Now I have few relatives living, und almost no desire to visit Germany again. America has taken hold of me, as it does every foreigner who comes over, und has made of me vhat I hope iss a goot citizen.”
The talk then drifted to Dorothy’s lessons. Herr Deichenberg questioned her closely as to her experience, nodding his head in grave satisfaction as she told of her lessons from Mr. Wilmot at Deerhurst. Then, apparently satisfied that she would prove an apt pupil, he asked to be allowed to listen to her playing. So, at Aunt Betty’s suggestion, they adjourned to the big living-room, where Dorothy tenderly lifted her violin from its case.
As she was running her fingers over the strings to find if the instrument was in tune, she noticed Herr Deichenberg holding out his hand for it.
She passed it over. The old German gave it a careful scrutiny, peering inside, and finally nodding his head in satisfaction.
“It iss a goot instrument,” he told her. “Not as goot as either a Cremona or a Strad, but by all means goot enough to serve your purpose.”
“It was a present from my Uncle Seth,” said Dorothy, “and I prize it very highly, aside from its actual value.”
“Und so you should—so you should,” said the Herr. “Come, now,”—moving toward the piano. “You read your music of course?”
Dorothy admitted that she did.