“How fine, how proud!” he said to himself, then added:
“I meant ‘make’ in the helpful sense. I know the song: I’ve heard it sung, I’ve sung it; I’ve taught you; my mind will act on yours, and you will sing it well.”
“Won’t you sing it yourself? Do, please.”
“No; to-night I wish to hear you.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you later. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I—”
“Oh, will you? I could sing it then, I think. You played it so beautifully the other day—with all those strange chords.”
He smiled.
“It is one of the few things that I can play. I always had a taste for music; and up in one of the forts there was an old melodeon, so I hammered away for years. I had to learn difficult things at the start, or none at all, or else those I improvised; and that’s how I can play one or two of Beethoven’s symphonies pretty well, and this song, and a few others, and go a cropper with a waltz. Will you come?”
They moved to the piano. No one at first noticed them. When he sat down, he said: