citing present for you. But once, long ago, I made a song for a child on his birthday. He was just as old as you. He has no longer any need of it—so I give it, my dear, to you. It is the greatest gift I have to give."
In the silence that followed, there crept into the firelit room the star-clear notes of a little prelude. Then the Maestro sang softly:
"Roses in the moonlight,
To-night all thine,
Pale in the shade, and bright
In the star-shine;
Roses and lilies white,
Dear child of mine!
My heart I give to thee,
This day all thine;
At thy feet let it be—
It is the sign
Of all thou art to me,
Dear child—"
But the poor Maestro could not finish the verse. He swung about on the piano-stool, trying to frame a laughing apology. Kirk went to him instantly, both hands outstretched in his haste. His fingers found the Maestro's bowed shoulders; his arms went tight about the Maes-
