"Sit down by my feet, my child," he said to Gretchen, or in words of this meaning. "I have been thinking what it is that makes the music in the violin. Let us talk together, for something whispers in the leaves that my days are almost done."
"Let me get the violin and play to you, father; we are alone."
"Yes, yes; get the music, child, and you shall play, and we will talk. You shall sit down at my feet and play, and we will talk. Go, my little spirit."
Gretchen brought her violin, and sat down at his feet and tuned it. She then drew her bow, and threw on the air a haunting strain.
"Stop there, little spirit. It is beautiful. But what made it beautiful?"
"My bow—don't you see?"
Gretchen drew her bow, and again lifted the same haunting air.
"No—no—my girl—not the bow—something behind the bow."
"The strings?"
"No—no—something behind the strings."