But, a little way off, there was the long
beautiful stalks growing strong and high, waving in God's wind;
and the birds did not go near them."
Mary drew a long breath, and said to herself:
"The man is a poet!"--"You're not afraid of your sister now?" she
said to him.
"Not a bit," he answered. "Since I knew you, I feel as if we had
in a sort of a way changed places, and she was a little girl that
must be humored and made the best of. When she scolds, I laugh,
and try to make a bit of fun with her. But she's always so sure
she's right, that you wonder how the world got made before she
was up."
They parted with the understanding that, when he came next, she
should give him his first lesson in reading music. With herself
Mary made merry at the idea of teaching the man of genius his
letters.
But, when once, through trying to play with her one of his own
pieces which she had learned from hearing him play it, he had
discovered how imperative it was to keep good time, he set
himself to the task with a determination that would have made
anything of him that he was only half as fit to become as a
musician.
When, however, in a short time, he was able to learn from notes,
he grew so delighted with some of the music Mary got for him,
entering into every nicety of severest law, and finding therein a
better liberty than that of improvisation, that he ceased for
long to play anything of his own, and Mary became mortally afraid
lest, in developing the performer, she had ruined the composer.
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