the room was now filled with the strains of Kirk's music. The Maestro would not, perhaps, have altogether approved of its bombastic nature—but triumphant it certainly was, and sincere. And what the music lacked was amply made up in Kirk's face as he played—an ineffable expression of mingled joy, devotion, and the solid satisfaction of a creator in his own handiwork. He finished his performance with one long-drawn and really superb chord, and then came to his mother on flying feet.
"I meant it to be much, much nicer," he explained, "like a real one that the Maestro played. But I made it all for you, Mother, anyway—and the other was for Napoleon or somebody."
"Oh, you unbelievable old darling!" said Mrs. Sturgis. "As if I wouldn't rather have that than all the real ones! But, Ken—you didn't tell me even that he could play do-re-mi-fa!"
"Well, Mother!" Ken protested, "I couldn't tell you everything."
And Mrs. Sturgis, striving to straighten her tangled wits, admitted the truth of this remark.
After supper, which was a real feast, includ-
