“Perhaps I have,” she admitted.
“If you go away,” he went on, “it is better that you should study. You have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered.”
Iris turned upon him. “You mean that?” she asked, sharply.
“Of course,” he returned, serenely. “Before you can help those who have suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written.”
Iris sighed heavily. “I must go,” she said, dully.
“Not yet. Wait.”
He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the Cremona. “See,” he said, with his face aglow, “is it not most beautiful? When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona.”
“Thank you,” returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both laughter and tears, “I will remember.”
When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two, then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years.