Pedro played, and played, and played. In the music he interwove all the trials, sorrows and happiness of his childhood, and his love for the Master. A soft wind rustled through the trees, the sound of a little brooklet was heard and the birds calling to one another in the forest. It all ended with one trembling chord. When he had finished the Master was sitting up in bed. “Pedro, where did you learn to play that?”
Pedro smiled. “You taught me, Master. I always knew you must have had some sorrow in your life or you never could have played so exquisitely.”
The Master said: “You are right.” And then he told him of his sorrowful and suffering life. “Play it again, Pedro. Now you understand.”
Pedro played, and played, and played. This time there was a sweetness that somehow made the sad strain less noticeable. The Master lay looking out of the window; day was breaking. As the last sweet, trembling note died away, Pedro looked into the face of the Master. There was a beautiful smile on his face. For the Master the trials and sorrows of the world were over. Pedro knelt down before the Master and kissed the thin, white hand reverently, the hand that had made so many sad lives happy with beautiful music.
VOICE FROM A FAR COUNTRY
The old couple were very lonely as they sat in their little kitchen that wintry afternoon. It was their daughter’s birthday, their only child, who had left them to go to the great, glittering world on the far side of the water. There she had won fame with her voice, while they had stayed behind in the little village and tried to be cheerful without her. Usually they succeeded pretty well, but this birthday, of all days in the year, was the hardest to bear; even Christmas was not so hard as this birthday, which brought so vividly to their minds the memories of other birthdays—the first one when the baby’s coming had found them awe-struck with the joy and wonder of it all, and each succeeding year, as their treasure grew to girlhood and from a girl to a sweet and winning woman, then faded from their sight.
They had not seen her since, for money was scarce and time valuable. She must work very hard, so she wrote them. The old couple tried to keep up a conversation as they sat in the kitchen that wintry afternoon, but failed miserably. Finally after a long silence the old man rose and said:
“Guess I’ll get the chores done before it storms, mother. Coming on to snow fast.”
“All right, father, I’ll have supper ready for you when you come in.”
“You needn’t hurry about supper. Guess I’ll go to the post-office after I get the critters fed. There might be a letter from Milly.”