* * * * *

“The people expect startling things ... and, as the winds of genius blow where they list—­when they refuse to blow in the direction required, divine is the art of buncombe,” he jested.

I suppose this applied to his musician-prodigy, a girl of eight, who worked, in the afternoons, in the bindery.  And when a visiting party swept through that department, it was part of her job to rise as if under the impulse of inspiration, leave her work, and go to a nearby piano and play ... the implication being that the piano was placed there for the use of the workers when melody surged within them....

But she was the only one who played.  And she never played except when she was tipped the wink.  And it was only one thing—­a something of Rubenstein’s ... which she had practised and practised and practised to perfection; and that rendered, with haughty head like a little sibyl, she would go back to her work-bench.  And if urged to play more, she would answer, lifting her great, velvet eyes in a dreamy gaze, “no, no more to-day.  The inspiration has gone.”  And, awed, the visitors would depart.

* * * * *

Back of the bindery stood the blacksmith shop, where MacKittrick, the historian-blacksmith, plied the bellows and smote the anvil.

MacKittrick took a liking to me.  For one day we began talking about ancient history, and he perceived that I had a little knowledge of it, and a feeling for the colour and motion of its long-ago life.

“I want you to come and work for me,” he urged, “my work is mostly pretty,” he apologised, with blacksmith sturdiness, “—­not making horseshoes, but cutting out delicate things, ornamental iron work for aesthetic purposes, and all that ... all you’ll have to do will be to swing the hammer gently, while I direct the blows and cut put the dainty filigree the “Master” sells to folk, afterward, as art.”

“Well, isn’t it art?” I asked.

“I suppose it is.  But I like the strong work of blacksmithing best.  You see, I was born to be a great historian.  But destiny has made me a blacksmith,” he continued irrelevantly ... “do come out and work for me.  I’m hungry for an intelligent helper who can talk history with me while we work.”

My transfer was effected.  And I was immediately glad of it.  “Mac,” as we called him, was a fine, solid man ... and he did know history.  He knew it as a lover knows his mistress.  He was right.  He should have been a great historical writer—­great historian he was!

For two glorious months I was with him.  And during those two months, I learned more about the touch and texture of the historic life of man than three times as many years in college could have taught me.

“Mac” talked of Caesar as if only yesterday he had shaken hands with him in the Forum ... and he was shocked over his murder as if it had happened right after....