And Pedro? No task was too hard, no study too difficult, no practice too long and tedious, if he might please his good old friend; and even while he struggled with the difficulties of technique, he never lost hope or patience, for before him always like a guiding star, was the serene white face of the master.
So the years went by, and all Italy was being searched for the finest wood that grew—for the sharpest tools. The wood for the master's violin must be well seasoned—it would take a long time—the longer, the better. For centuries the old tree had listened to wind, and river, and bird; the sounds of the forest were interwoven with its fibre, and now it must give up its buried music in answer to the strings of the violin.
The childish stature was changed to that of manhood, and still the teacher found in Pedro a devoted pupil. The youth had developed in many ways, but the artist seemed to be little changed. A little more bent, perhaps, but the same sweet soul.
Pedro had the "Beauty" but the master's violin was not yet finished. He never asked for it, never spoke of it; in the delight of Pedro's achievement and greater promise, perhaps he had forgotten the promise of the old violin maker.
But the old man was growing feeble. A change was coming and the young man felt it too. He went one day for his lesson, and the housekeeper met him at the door with her finger on her lip. Hush! The teacher was ill. But he would like to see Pedro for a few minutes.
He went in and spoke tenderly to the old friend, whose eyes shone with so much love for his pupil—his boy—as he still called him. Pedro could not stay long—it was too sad, and the tears were choking his utterance. He went home with a sorrow-laden heart.
His father said to him as he entered: "The master's violin is at last finished, my son. See?"
He held up a beautifully fashioned instrument.
"You shall take it to him to-morrow. Ah, its tone! You will play?"
"No, father, I cannot. The master, he is ill—dying—perhaps. Oh! I cannot."