“But you charmed them with your music,” Greta said in a low tone.
“Yes,” he agreed, “that was not so bad. To stand before thousands, to know that you are truly bringing joy to their lives, that is grand.
“But even that—” his voice took on a weary note. “Even that loses its charm when you are weary and they still say, ‘Play for us. Play here. Play there.’ Then you long to be away from it all, to forget, and to make a fresh start.
“And so,” he added, smiling down at her, “so I ran away to Greenstone Ridge.
“One more thing—” his tone became more deeply serious. “I wanted to create a little music of my own, all my own. I suppose the desire to create is in the heart of all. Up there alone on Greenstone Ridge I wrote music. I played it to the birds, the wolves, the moose, but mainly to the twittering birds. You have heard some of it. How—how do you like it?”
“I think,” Greta whispered, “that it is divine!”
“But now—” Greta’s tone was wistful. “Now you will come back and you will play again! And you will teach others?”
“Yes.” There was a touch of tenderness in his voice. “Yes, dear little girl, I will go back now. I will teach others, and you shall be my very first pupil.”
“Oh!” she breathed. “How—how marvelous! But—” her voice sank to a whisper. “We—we are not rich.”
“Rich? Who spoke of money?” Once more he beamed down upon her. “No true artist wants money from his disciples. All he asks is that his pupils have the touch divine. And that, my child, is yours. It is your very great gift.”