"'Pan and the Shepherds,' 'Pan and the Birds,'—those others."
He put the instrument to his lips; then magic happened. For it took little fancy to see the windy hilltop peopled with prancing fauns and flitting nymphs; clean-limbed, simple shepherds with eaten pipes; and brown, crook-legged satyrs, dancing to the eerie trilling of Stysalski's flute. And, at the end, came Pan all alone, crooning into his mournful reeds until no sound was left but the wind in the grass. Garth, who was curled up beside his father, opened his eyes and whispered raptly:
"I didn't know anything could be so wonderful. It made me see fairies, and druids, and all kinds of things."
"I don't think you mean druids, old dear," whispered Jim, "but I know how you feel," and he joined in the sincere compliments of the others.
The Count played on,—Tschaikowsky, and Beethoven, and Rimsky Korsakow,—till the shadows began to lengthen, and Jim, who had been charmed almost into forgetfulness of his duty, sprang up, thinking of the Light.
Carrying empty baskets downhill is a much easier task than dragging full ones up, and Sty-
