certain that she would not last the voyage out. The mother was in
agony as she held the tiny wailing, creature out toward him while he
cooed to it and touched its cheek with tender fingers, trying to
arouse its interest without success. It was as a final effort to amuse
it that he took his flute out of the curious leather case he always
carried.

Just as dusk fell on the vessel he began to play.

At first, the strains were soft and low, for the child's benefit,
alone, scarce audible at any distance. Almost instantly she quieted,
and, as Vanderlyn came up from dinner in the big saloon and glanced
across the rail, as usual, he saw a little group of fascinated folk
there, close about the flute-player, and faintly heard the sweet,
pathetic strains of an old German cradle-song. So soft the sounds
were, though, that he could barely catch them, and, therefore, at
first, he did not wholly realize their beauty.

Soon, though, the old man plainly utterly forgot the fact that there
were other people near than the now quiet child, its mother, his Anna
and himself, for he threw more force into his playing. The
steerage-passengers drew closer in a reverent silence, as the European
peasant always will at sound of really good music, and many of the
first-cabin passengers joined John at the rail, attracted by the sweet
and soaring melody. In a few moments a full score had gathered there,
all listening, intent, enthralled, quite silent.

"Marfellous! He iss a firtuoso!" grumbled a big German at John's side.
John turned to him and smiled. The man, he knew, was Anton Karrosch an
operatic impresario. He was glad to have his own impression of the