But all was repaid when the Maestro dropped to the
piano-stool and filled a half-hour with music that made Kirk more than
ever long to master the scales. And there was tea, always, and slow,
sun-bathed wanderings in the garden, hand in hand with the Maestro.
He must hear, now, all about the Sturgis Water Line, and Ken's yachting
cap with the shiny visor, and how Kirk had taken the afternoon trip
three times, and how--if the Maestro didn't know it already--the sound
of water at the bow of a boat was one of the nicest noises there was.
"There are those who think so," said the old gentleman. "Kirk, tell Ken
not to let the sea gain a hold on him. He loves it, does he not?"
"Yes," said Kirk, aghast at the sudden bitter sorrow in the gentle
voice. "Why?"
"The sea is a tyrant. Those she claims, she never releases. I know."
He stood among the gently falling blossoms of the big quince-tree by the
terrace. Then he suddenly drew Kirk to him, and said:
"I spoke of the garden being filled, to me, with the memory of children;
did I not?"
Kirk remembered that he had--on May-day.
"A little boy and a little girl played here once," said the Maestro,
"when the pools were filled, and the garden paths were trim. The little
girl died when she was a girl no longer. The boy loved the sea too well.
He left the garden, to sail the seas in a ship--and I have never seen
him since."
"Was he your little boy?" Kirk hardly dared ask it.
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