As I brushed out my hair I heard the sound of a violin.

Someone was playing next door.

I listened, and recognised a famous Beethoven Concerto.

The unseen musician played brilliantly and withal tenderly, both touch and tone reminding me of some beautiful verses in a book of poems I had recently read, called "Love-Letters of a Violinist," in which the poet [FOOTNOTE: Author of the equally beautiful idyl, "Gladys the Singer," included in the new American copyright edition just issued.] talks of his "loved Amati," and says: "I prayed my prayer.

I wove into my song Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak, The wan despair that words could never speak.
I prayed as if my spirit did belong To some old master who was wise and strong, Because he lov'd and suffered, and was weak.
"I trill'd the notes, and curb'd them to a sigh, And when they falter'd most, I made them leap Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep A young she-devil.