“The Herr Irving,” said the Master, with interest, “he has appreciated mine playing?”
“Of course—we all did.”
“Mine pupil progresses,” he remarked, enigmatically.
“Was it,” began Iris, hesitating over the words,—“was it the Cremona?”
The Master looked at her sharply. “Yes, why not? One gives one’s best to Death.”
“Death demands it, and takes it,” said the girl. “That is why.”
She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put down the violin he was working upon. His heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, her eyes burning fiercely. He saw that her hands were trembling, and, moving his chair closer, he took them both in his.
“Little lady,” he said, “it makes mine old heart ache to see you so close with sorrow. If it could be divided, I would take mine share, because these broad shoulders are used to one heavy burden, and a little more would not matter so much, but one must learn, even though the cross is very hard to bear.
“It is most difficult, and yet some day you will see. You have only to look out of your window for one year to understand it all. First it is Winter, and the snow is deep upon the ground. All the flowers are dead, and there are no birds. The moon shines cold, and there are many storms. But, so slow that you can never see it, there is change. Presently, the bare branches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birds come back, and all the earth is glad again.