"Yes, father," replied the boy absently. His eyes were following the clouds.
The man blew great puffs of smoke toward them. "It is more than a hundred and twenty years ago that we came from Hungary," he said proudly.
The boy nestled toward him. "Tell me about it." He had heard the story many times.
"Ja, ja," said the man musingly.... "He was my great-grandfather, that man—Veit Bach—and your great-great-grandfather."
The boy nodded.
"And he was a miller——"
He dropped into silence, and a little brook that ran over the stones near by babbled as it went.
The boy raised his eyes. "And he had a lute," he prompted softly.
"Ja, he had a lute—and while the mill-wheel turned, he played the lute—sweet, true notes and tunes he played—in that old mill."
The boy smiled contentedly.