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Erdman threw off his heavy cap and bent toward the book, with a little gesture of wonder. “I heard about Christoph’s book–a good many times,” he said softly…. “I didn’t ever think I’d see it.” He reached out his hand and touched the open page.

“Nobody ever saw it,” said Sebastian absently. He was humming to himself. “Listen to this!” he said eagerly. He hummed a few bars. “That’s Buxtehude’s–isn’t it great!” His face went tumpty-tumpty with the notes, and the blue eyes shone. “But this is the one I like best–listen!” He turned over the pages rapidly. “Here it is. This is Reinken’s. ‘By the waters of Babylon, by the waters, by the waters of Babylon.'” He hummed the tune below his breath–and then louder and fuller…. The clear, sweet soprano of the notes died away softly. “Some day I shall play it,” said Sebastian lingeringly. “Some day. See–here is the place for the harps! And here are the great horns. Listen!” His voice droned away at the bass and ran into the swift high notes of the treble. “Some day I shall play it,” he repeated wistfully.

Erdman’s slow gaze was following the page. “I can’t read so fast,” he said enviously.

Sebastian smiled back. “I know it by heart–almost. When the moon was behind the clouds I waited. I sang them over and over.”

“Very softly,” said Erdman, as if seeing the picture of the boy and the darkened room.

“Very softly,” assented Sebastian, “so that no one should hear. And now I have them all!” He spoke exultingly. “And next month I shall see Reinken…. I shall hear him play!”

The other stared at him. “But Reinken is at Hamburg,” he said at last.

“And that, too, is so,” said Sebastian smiling.

“And we go to Lueneburg—-“

“And we go to Lueneburg!” repeated the boy, with a mocking lilt in his voice. “And Lueneburg is twenty miles from Hamburg. Hadst thought of that!” He laughed exultingly.

The other shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

Sebastian was fastening the big violin in place on his back. He looked up under smiling brows, as he bent to draw the last strap. Then he touched his sturdy legs with his hand and laughed. “I mean that these are the horses to carry me to Hamburg and back many times. I shall hear the great Reinken play!–And I, too, shall play!” he added proudly.

“Do you never doubt, Sebastian?” asked the other thoughtfully, as they moved on.

“Doubt?”

“Whether you will be a great musician?… Sometimes I see myself going back–” He paused as if ashamed to have said so much.

Sebastian shook his head. His blue eyes were following the clouds in the spring day. “Sometimes I doubt whether I am among the elect,” he said slowly. “But never that I am to be a musician.” His full lips puckered dreamily, and his golden head nodded, keeping slow time. “By the waters–” he broke out into singing. “Is it not wunderschoen!” The blue eyes turned with a smile. “It is wunderschoen! Ach–wunderschoen! Is it not, Erdman?” He seemed to awake and laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder.

The other nodded. “Yes, it is schoen,” he said wistfully.

“Come, I will teach it to thee!”

And the notes of Reinken’s choral, “An den Wasserfluessen Babylon,” floated with a clear, fresh sound on the spring morning air, two hundred years ago, and more, as two charity pupils walked along the road to Lueneburg.

IV

A tall man with keen eyes and a round stomach stood in the shadow of the Johanneskirche, lost in thought and humming to himself. Now and then he took off his glasses and rubbed them vigorously, and put them on again to peer absently down the street.

A heavy figure, clad in the faded blue uniform of the Michaelsschule, rounded the corner, puffing heavily.

“Ach, Kerlman!” The tall man started forward with a stride. “You are late.”

The other nodded imperturbably.

“Ja, I am late. Those boys–I cannot make to hurry.” He spoke as if assigning sufficient reason and wiped his brow.