The log-fire burned up brightly.

He waited.  A great expectation filled him.

He was remembering something he had long forgotten.

Looking straight before him at his own reflection in the mirror, he smiled to see how correctly he held the ’cello.  The Infant seemed at home between his knees.

The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him peculiar pleasure.

The fire burned low.

His reflected figure dimmed and faded.  A misty shadow hid it from his eyes.  He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white line of his linen cuff.

Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to remember.

He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist.  He was gripping the neck of the ’cello.  The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his finger-tips.

He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.

Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded
Ronnie’s soul.

He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could only go on doing it.

He knew that he—­he himself—­was at last playing his own ’cello.  Yet it seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.

Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.

Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.

Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.

He saw therein reflected, the ’cello and the Italian chair; but the figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure was not his own.

A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists.  The knees, gripping the ’cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor, gleamed diamond shoe-buckles.

Ronnie gazed at this reflection.

Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the music now throbbing through the studio.

Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror.  The man in the mirror did not lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie.  Either they were bent upon the ’cello, or he played with them fast closed.

Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands.  He could feel his fingers moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror.  He feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked at his own hands.

The fire burned low again.

Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played.  The music gained in volume and in beauty.

The fire burned lower.  The room was nearly dark.  The reflection was almost hidden.

Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low square forehead.