She came out during the intermission to speak with him.  “They’re all through now,” she said encouragingly.

He looked down at his program bewildered, and a little disappointed, she thought.  “They got ’em all done?—­I didn’t hear that ‘Wanderin’ Iceberg’ one,” he said regretfully.  “I cal’ated to listen to that.  But I was so interested in the children that I clean forgot.—­They’re nice children.”  He looked about the room where they were laughing and talking in groups.  “Time to go, is it?”

“Not yet.  That was only the first half—­the pupils’ half.  The rest is what I wanted you to hear—­the sea-pieces and the others.  They are played by real musicians.”

“You goin’ to do one?” asked Uncle William.

“Yes, one.”  She smiled at him.

“I’ll stay.”  He settled back comfortably.

“That’s right.  I must go now and speak to some of the mothers.  They only come for the first half.  They will be going home.”  She moved away.

Uncle William’s eyes followed her admiringly.  He turned to the old gentleman beside him.  “Nice girl,” he said.

“She is a fine teacher,” responded the old gentleman.  “She had not been here long, but she had a good following.  She has temperament.”

“Has she?” Uncle William looked after her a little quizzically.  “Makes ’em stand around does she?  You can’t ever tell about temper.  Sometimes it’s the quietest ones has the wust.  But she makes ’em work good.  You can see that.”

“Yes, she makes them work.”  The old gentleman smiled upon him kindly and patronizingly.  He had been born and brought up in New York.  He was receptive to new ideas and people.  There was something about Uncle William—­a subtle tang—­that he liked.  It was a new flavor.

Uncle William studied his program.  “Sounds more sensible’n some of it.”  He had laid a big finger on a section near the end.  “I can understand that, now, ‘To an Old White Pine.’  That’s interestin’.  Now that one there.”  He spelled out the strange sounds slowly, “’Opus 6, No. 2, A minor, All-e-gro.’  Now mebbe you know what that means—­I don’t.  But an ol’ white-pine tree—­anybody can see that.  We don’t hev ’em up my way—­pine-trees.  But I like ’em—­al’ays did—­al’ays set under ’em when they’re handy.  You don’t hev many round here?”

The old gentleman smiled.  “No; there are not many old white pines in New York.  I can remember a few, as a boy.”

“Can ye?—­Right in the center here?” Uncle William was interested.

“Well, not just here—­a little out.  But they’re gone.”  The old gentleman sighed.  “MacDowell has caught the spirit.  You can hear the wind soughing through them and the branches creaking a little and rubbing, and a still kind of light all around.  It’s very nice.”

“Good poetry, I s’pose,” assented Uncle William.  “I don’t care so much for poetry myself.  Some on it’s good,” he added thoughtfully. “’The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck,’ that swings off kind o’ nice, and ’Horatius at the Bridge.’  But most on it has a kind o’ travelin’ round way with it—­has to go round by Robin Hood’s barn to get anywheres.  I’m gen’ally sort o’ drowsy whilst it’s bein’ read.”