They knew, now, of course, that the musician lived in the neighboring house—­the gable and chimney of which was just visible above the orange-trees.  But that was all.  Obedient to some whimsical impulse that prompted them both, and was born, no doubt, of the circumstance and mood of that first evening, they did not seek to learn more.  They feared—­though they did not say it—­that to learn the identity of the musician would rob them of the peculiar pleasure they found in the music, itself.  So they spoke always of their unknown neighbor in a fanciful vein, as in like humor they spoke of the spirit that Aaron King still insisted haunted the place, or as they alluded to the mystery of the carefully tended rose garden.

When the artist could put it off no longer, a day was finally set when Mrs. Taine was to come for the beginning of her portrait.  The appointed hour found the artist in his studio.  A canvas stood ready upon the easel; palette, colors and brushes were at hand.  The painter was standing at the big, north window, looking up away to the mountains—­the mountains that the novelist said called so insistently.  Suddenly, he turned his head to listen.  Sweetly clear and low, through the green wall of the orange-trees, came the music of that hidden violin.

As he stood there,—­with his eyes fixed upon the mountains, listening to the spirit that spoke in the tones of the unseen instrument,—­Aaron King knew, all at once, that the passing moment was one of those rare moments—­that come, all unexpectedly—­when, with prophetic vision, one sees clearly the end of the course he pursues and the destiny that waits him at its completion.  As clearly, too, he saw the other way, and knew the meaning of the vision.  But seldom is the strength given to man, in such moments, to choose for himself.  Though he may see the other way clearly, his feet cling to the path he has elected to follow; nor will he, unless some one takes him by the hand saying, “Come,” turn aside.

A voice, not at all in harmony with the music, broke upon the artist’s consciousness.  He turned to see Mrs. Taine standing expectantly in the open door.  “Hush!” said the painter, still under the spell of that moment so big with possibilities.  “Listen,”—­with a gesture, he checked her advance,—­“listen.”

A look of haughty surprise flashed over the woman’s too perfect features.  Then, as her ear caught the tones of the violin, she half turned—­but only for a moment.

“Very clever, isn’t it,” she said as she came forward “It must be old Professor Becker.  He lives somewhere around here, I understand.  They say he is very good.”

The artist looked at her for an instant, in amazement Then, as his normal mind asserted itself, he burst into an embarrassed laugh.

At her look of puzzled inquiry, he said, “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine.  I did not realize how harshly I greeted you.  The fact is I—­I was dreaming”—­he turned suggestively toward the canvas upon the easel.  “You see I was expecting you—­I was thinking—­then the music came—­and—­well—­when you actually appeared in the flesh, I did not for the moment realize that it was really you.”