"Playin' to the grand stand, ain't ye? instead o' gettin'
down to work. That'll do for ketch and toss. Play the
game! Deliver the goods!"

Then the professor began the full arm chords with sudden
fury, writhing upon the stool as he struck the angry
notes from the piano. Pearl's indignation ran high.

"He's lost his head--he's up in the air!" she shouted,
but the words were lost in the clang of musical discords.

But wait! Pearl sat still and listened. There was something
doing. It was a Welsh rhapsodie that he was playing. It
was all there--the mountains and the rivers, and the
towering cliffs with glimpses of the sea where waves foam
on the rocks, and sea-fowl wheel and scream in the wind,
and then a bit of homely melody as the country folk drive
home in the moonlight, singing as only the Welsh can
sing, the songs of the heart; songs of love and home,
songs of death and sorrowing, that stab with sudden
sweetness. A child cries somewhere in the dark, cries
for his mother who will come no more. Then a burst of
patriotic fire, as the people fling defiance at the
conquering foe, and hold the mountain passes till the
last man falls. But the glory of the fight and the march
of many feet trail off into a wailing chant--the death
song of the brave men who have died. The widow mourns,
and the little children weep comfortless in their mountain
home, and the wind rushes through the forest, and the