—Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare.
Lonely and distrait Bee wandered about the house the next day unable to settle down to anything.
"What if father should go away again for ten years," she thought with sudden dismay. "I don't believe that I could live. I could not stand it without him now. What if he should!"
Troubled by this thought she sat down on the veranda steps, and leaned listlessly against a post. For some time she sat there musing, but presently was aroused from her meditations by the sound of music. Bee raised her head and listened intently.
"I have heard that several times of late," she said, glad of the diversion. "I wonder where it comes from? I am going to find out."
She rose, listened again to catch the strain, then began to walk in the direction from whence it came. Through the garden and orchard, across the fields to the arbor vitæ hedge which separated their land from their neighbor's she went, the music becoming more and more distinct. Beethoven's Romance in G was being played, although Bee did not know what it was, and the musician was executing it with wonderful technique.
Always susceptible to the influence of music the girl stood spellbound. Presently the performance stopped abruptly, and a sweet voice—sweet despite a certain querulous note in it—said sharply:
"Percival, that last was entirely too fast. What would Heinrich say to you?"
"I don't give a cent what he'd say," retorted a boyish voice petulantly. "I'm tired of practicing. I want to have some fun. I guess I'm a boy as well as a violinist."