As the voyage progressed, too, it was plain enough that others than the Vanderlyns began to feel, instinctively, the real superiority of the old man and his daughter.  Down on the steerage-deck they were, involuntarily, given a certain courteous consideration by the passengers, and even by the stewards—­and to impress a steerage-steward is no ordinary victory.  The old man showed a kindly heart, especially to the many women with small babes among the huddled passengers.  Love of children, plainly, was mighty in his soul and by the hour he sat, surrounded by a circle of the little ones, to their very great delight and the relief of the poor mothers who thus obtained the first hours of freedom from continual care which they had had since the long voyage had begun.

It was his playing with the children that gave birth to a sensation which thrilled the ship from end to end.  He was trying patiently, persistently, to amuse a little, ailing tot.  It was beginning to seem 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 wondrous merit of the playing confirmed by an authority.

“He seems to be quite poor,” he whispered eagerly.  “Perhaps you might find something for him, when we reach New York.  He—­”

“Ach!  He will have no droobles,” said Herr Karrosch.  “A man who blays like dot!  Ven ve land, I see him; yes.”