* * * * * * * *

Never had Archie played so well, for all his shyness and nervousness.  He seemed to gather something of the great man’s soul as he played before him at the hotel the following day.

Ventnor became greatly excited.  “Boy, boy!” he cried, “you have a great music in you!  You must have study and work, like what is it you Canadians say?—­like Sam Hill!”

“Yes,” said Archie, quietly; “rainy days and east wind days, when I coughed and could not go to school, I worked, and—­well, I just worked.”

“Me, I should t’ink you did!  Why, boy, I will make you great.  I will teach you all this summer.”

“I’m afraid father can’t afford that,” faltered Archie.

“Me, I tell you I holiday now.  I take no money in my holiday.  I teach you because I like you, me,” replied the master, irritably.

“But I can never repay you,” answered Archie.

“Me, I will give to the world a great musician; it is you!  That’s repay enough for me—­the satisfaction of making one great violinist.  That’s repay.”

And so it all came about.  Day after day Ventnor taught, trained and encouraged Archie Anderson.  Day after day the boy drew greater music from the heart of his fiddle.  He seemed to stride ahead under the power of the master; and as for Ventnor, he seemed beside himself with joy at what he called his “find.”  They grew to be friends.  Archie confided his great discouragement of ill-health, his inability to attend school.

“Me, I fix all that,” answered Ventnor.  “Me, I go see to-night your parents.  I talk to them.”  And he did, but his “talk” amazed even the boy.  He wanted Archie to go with him to California, where his autumn season began.  He wanted to adopt him, to take him away for two years.  He gesticulated, and raised his eyebrows, and talked down every objection they had.

“I tell you I want him.  I make a virtuoso of him.  He is my boy.  I discover him.  He’s good boy; he work, work, work.  Never do I see a boy work like dat.  He is in earnest.  Dat is de greatest t’ing a boy can have, to be earnest.  It make him a great, good man.  He’s not selfish either.  He not t’ink of himself, only other beeple.  I meet with misfortune.  I break my string.  He lend me his violin.  Me, I’m selfish.  I don’t lend my violin to not a person.  No, not even the King of England.  Den, too, Archie, his throat and lungs, and his physique, it is not strong, not robust.  I take him hot country, warm California.  He get strong.”

This last argument was too much for Archie’s family.  They yielded, and when Ventnor left for the West the boy went with him.  He never missed a week writing home or to “Hock,” and at the end of two years he returned.  In his pocket was a signed contract as “first violin” in the finest orchestra of a great Southern city.  He had left his cough with his short trousers in California, and had outgrown as much of his frailness as a boy of his temperament ever can.  The day he left to fill his engagements the lady called who used to speak of him as “poor Archie, he’s such an expense to his parents,” and sat talking to Mrs. Anderson in the little parlor.  Trig had just secured a “situation,” and the caller was asking about it.