heart. In his warm hero-worship he had dreamed that Napoleon meant to make France a republic, and he intended to dedicate his "Heroic Symphony" to him. But, just as he was completing it, he heard that the emperor had been crowned. With mingled passion and disappointment, he tore off the title-page bearing the word "Bonaparte," and flung the whole thing to the floor. "After all, he 's nothing but an ordinary mortal!" he exclaimed bitterly. And so, though the original. manuscript still bears faint traces of the fallen hero's name, it was published merely: "To the Memory of a Great Man."

As Louis Nohl says, the march in this symphony gathers into one picture "the glad tramp of warlike hosts, the rhythm of trampling steeds, the waving of standards, and the sound of trumpets."

To Beethoven the greatest element in music

nasts, no matter how good, had better try shallower compositions.

There is the music of imitation and the music of feeling. One of Beethoven's early teachers had complained, in despair, "He will never do anything according to rule; he has learned nothing." But even then the young genius was feeling something no follower of rules could teach. Before him lay a conquest of sound so glorious that strong men would bow their heads and sob aloud at its power.

Like a mighty heart the music seemed,
That yearns with melodies it cannot speak.

Sir George Grove said of Beethoven's "Funeral March," "If ever horns talked like flesh and blood, they do it here." That solemn march stirs us to the depths. But hard labor had gone hand in hand with feeling. Though Beethoven could

neither play nor write formally, he often worked for years on a piece of music, changing, cutting, and improving. They say that of his opera "Fidelio" he made as many as eighteen different versions.

He had the power of imitation, too, though that was not his greatest strength. As we can see the sunlight flash on the leaping fish in Schubert's "Trout," so we can see a heavenly shimmer in Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." His "Pastoral Symphony" carries us from the scene by the brook, through the gathering of the peasants, a

LOUIS-LOCS.

BEETHOVEN'S PRACTICE PIANO.

thunder-storm, a shepherd's song, and a final rejoicing. We hear the murmur of the brook and the mutter of thunder; the violins make flashes of lightning; the flute, oboe, and clarinet mimic the nightingale, quail, and cuckoo. One part of the symphony pictures "a rustic merry-making, the awkward, good-natured gambols of peasants," and one old fellow who sits on a barrel and is able to play only three tones.

The great, lonely composer gave and craved much love. But no friend, no one ever held a place in his heart equal to his nephew Carl's. At eight, the boy had been left by his father's will to his Uncle Ludwig, and immediately that uncle assumed all a father's responsibility and love. His one great thought, aside from music, was Carl. Much of his music, even, was written to get money for the boy's education. We follow the uncle through all his early hopes. Believing he saw scientific genius "in the dear pledge intrusted" to him, he sent the boy to a fine school and gave him, besides, lessons in drawing,

French, and music. For years he chose him the best tutors, watched over him like a mother, and called him all kinds of pet names: "lovely lad," "my Carl," "dear little rascal," "best ragamuffin," "dear jewel," but, oftenest of all, "my son." How willingly he adjusted his own program to suit the boy's convenience! He believed he found in the handsome little fellow all the things he longed for: honor, tenderness, affection; and he vowed to do his "best for him to the end of his life," and leave him everything after death.

To those who read Beethoven's letters, even the awful, increasing deafness seems less cruel than Carl's ingratitude. The empty-hearted fellow had no loyalty. As he grew older, he grew calculating and defiant. It is not too hard to say that he loved his uncle's money, not his uncle. At twenty, he was publicly expelled from the university, and later sent to prison, his uncle getting him out and securing him a commission in the army. With all this, the selfish nephew even begrudged Beethoven his society. The uncle, in his wistful loneliness, wrote him the most pathetic letters. "I should be so glad to have a human heart about me in my solitude," he said, touchingly.

How often the great composer must have looked from his sick-room window! The long days lagged by, and many suns set gloriously behind the trees; but Carl, beloved and longed for, did not come.

Meanwhile, "in his remote house on the hill," the "Solitary of the Mountain" fought out his final conquest. On his writing-table stood his framed motto: "I am all that is, all that was, and all that shall be; no mortal man hath my veil uplifted." "He had learned in suffering what he taught in song." His life had been one battle after another, all the way: the child Ludwig had begun by caring for a drunken father and shouldering big debts; the man had driven himself through humdrum lessons. Then came the approach of closing deafness, and, in the darkness of desperation, Beethoven had looked up and said, "Art, when persecuted, finds everywhere a place of refuge; Dædalus, though inclosed in the labyrinth, invented wings which carried him into the air; oh! I also will find those wings." Lonely for Carl and hungry for his own music, he said to himself, "Poor Beethoven, there is no external happiness for you! You must create your own happiness." "O God, grant me strength to conquer myself," he prayed. And so he determined to give to others what he, himself, could not get -a wonderful rapture of sound; he would not leave this earth till he had revealed what lay within him. For this, he had been sent of God.

CHAPTER IX

AN EXTRACT FROM BEE'S DIARY

MEANWHILE, in Denewood many things were happening, and I cannot do better than to copy out of Bee's diary a few of the pages relating to the day of Jacky's disappearance.

Bee had a book of maxims in which, from earliest childhood, she had put down her thoughts from time to time, and this led her into keeping an account of what went on in her life.

"It will amuse the children when I am a grandmother, Peg," she told me laughingly; but long ere that it proved of interest to more than one in the family.

I must stop here to say that her confidence in me was hardly deserved, but I am proud of it, and glad it helped her to bear bravely those long hours of anxiety. Having said this much, I shall let Bee speak for herself.

MRS. MUMMER was the first to draw my attention to the fact that Peggy was not in the house that morning. She came into my room all a-bustle, for she was ever busy, and looked here and there as if in search of some one.

"Where's Miss Peg?" she asked, a little impatiently.

"Is she not in her own room?" I said.

"Nay, I 've searched the house from cellar to eaves, and no sign of her," Mrs. Mummer replied. "Mayhap she's off to the woods with Jacky," I suggested.

"Aye, that's it," agreed Mrs. Mummer. "I doubt not she was sorry the lad was not let go to see the Indians. 'T is a pity his father could not have taken him to the powwow."

"And you the one who made the most objection!" I exclaimed, remembering who had protested loudest against the boy's going.

"Ah, well, Miss Bee, 't is true, as Mummer says, 'you cannot have the penny and the cake too,' but it goes against me not to let the lad have his way," she explained.

At that moment my brother Hal entered, having just ridden over from Chestnut Hill. When he heard of the proposed council at the Indian Queen Tavern, he turned on his heel.

"I'm off to see the redskins!" he exclaimed,

Beatrice of Denewood," etc.

for he was ever most interested in them; “and oh, by the way," he went on, halting a moment, "shall I take Jacky with me? I saw him in the wood beyond the gate. He was out hunting deer."

"No, his father wished him not to go. But was Peg with him?" I asked.

"I met her later looking for him," Hal answered. "She 's like the rest of you women, following the boy like a hen with one chicken. You'll spoil-"

"Where did you say you 'd met them, Hal?" I interrupted, for I had heard all that he would have said on the subject many times before. "About a quarter of a mile back on the Mt. Airy road," he returned easily. "Peg hurried off as if a bear might catch him. You'll make a mollycoddle of the youngster, mark my words! Well, I'm off! Good-by." And a few moments later, I heard him galloping away to see the Indians.

"The lad was out of bounds," said Mrs. Mummer, eying me uneasily. "Eh, but, Miss Bee dear, ye won't punish him, will you?" she begged, as if I had threatened dire consequences for this infraction of the rules. "He 's but a baby, remember, and 't is natural he might make a mistake by accident. Promise you'll not punish him, Miss Bee!"

"Spare the rod and spoil the child,' as Mummer says," I quoted solemnly.

"What does a dried-up old man like Mummer know of bringing up children!" Mrs. Mummer exclaimed. "But I 've no fear of your striking him with any rod, and I'll not believe he was out of bounds at all. Master Hal's mistaken," and she flounced from the room, scandalized at the very thought of her darling being whipped.

If it had not been that I was convinced that my own dear Peggy was with the boy, I should have begun to be anxious much sooner than I did. As a matter of fact, it was not till near the dinner-hour that I realized that something must be amiss or the two would have returned. Distinctly worried, but by no means greatly alarmed, I sought Mummer.

"Have you seen aught of Master Jacky or Miss Peg?" I asked, but he shook his head.

"No, Madam," he answered, "but perchance

some of the men have. I'll find out." I followed him to the farm-servants' quarters, and there we found a black boy who said he had met Peggy going north into the woods.

"Why, yes, ma'am, I see her come along," he explained. "Jes' after I done seen the Injun back there near the upper wood-lot, ma'am." "Indian !" I echoed. "What Indian?"

"Oh, one of them chief Injuns, Mis' Travers, ma'am," he answered volubly; "dressed up mighty fine in paint and feathers he was, ma'am. I reckon he was gwine to the barbecue. I dun tole Missy Peg about him, and she looked scandalized, but she ain't sayin' nothin'. No 'm, I ain't seen no sign o' little massa," he ended, his eyes growing wider at the hint of trouble.

Taking this boy and one or two others, Mummer and I hurried to the place where he had met Peg, and then we went on for a good mile, but without catching sight of her. All the while, we called repeatedly at the top of our voices, but received no answer.

My

By this time I was thoroughly alarmed. first thought was that an accident had happened to one of them, but this scarce seemed likely. Unless both had in some way come to grief, we should have had word ere this; for even little Jack knew every inch of the land about Denewood, and could have warned us of a mishap to Peggy.

Evidently they were lost, having doubtless become bewildered in an unfamiliar part of the forest. Even now they might be hurrying away from us, all unknowing.

Thoroughly convinced of this, and assured of the uselessness of any further unskilled efforts to trace them, I immediately turned back, sending one of the boys ahead to find Bill Schmuck, who was as good as any Indian at following a trail. Indeed, John had often said he was better than the redskins at their own game, and I proposed to start him on the hunt without loss of time.

He responded promptly to my summons, and, when I told him what was wrong, he was ready on the instant to take up the search.

"They 're together, Miss Bee. I'll guarantee that," he said. "Otherwise one of them would be home by now. Where did Master Hal see the boy last?"

I told him all I knew, and he went off taking two black boys with him, while Mummer and I returned to Denewood. Good Mrs. Mummer met me in the drive, and one glance showed her that I had not found Peg or the boy. She had no need to ask whether I was anxious, and she was never one to waste time in talk; but she stood

ready now, as she had in the past, to further any plan I might have.

"Mummer," I said, as we had reached the house, "take Charley and ride among the neighbors. You may get some word of them."

"Aye, that 's well thought of!" Mrs. Mummer applauded, and her husband, with a nod, went off to the stables.

The next hour dragged itself out while I watched the roads and woods for the first sign of a returning messenger. Mrs. Mummer, scarce saying anything, stayed near me, her heart nigh as anxious as mine, for she loved the boy with all the strength and devotion which she would have given a son of her own, and Peggy was as the apple of her eye. It was sore waiting. If it had not been a matter of the woods, I would not have stayed back, but now I should but hamper those who sought the trail.

At length, as the time went by and no news came, I took thought of sending for John. This had occurred to me from the first, but it was hard for me to convince myself that aught serious had happened, and I had no wish to alarm him or to bring him back to Germantown upon a needless errand, with his day spoiled for nothing. Now, however, I felt that he should be advised. "I've decided to send for Master John," I said to Mrs. Mummer.

"T is time," she agreed. "Shall I give the order to Peter?"

"Yes, please," I answered, and then, as she started off, I checked her. "Nay, wait. 'T would be better if Mark Powell went."

"But who 's to tell Mr. Powell?" she asked, for he lived a mile or so away from us.

"I'll go," I answered. "It will help me to be doing something."

"Aye, deary, that 's wise too," she said, encouragingly. "I'll see that your horse is saddled"; and off she went to the stables while I ran up-stairs to put on a safeguard skirt and get my hat and gloves.

As I came down she met me at the door.

"You 're my own brave girl!" she said, and took me in her arms for a moment, giving me a hug of comfort. I know of few I would rather have near me in a time of trouble than good Mrs. Mummer.

"If I could only understand it," I murmured, a little brokenly; "Peggy must be with the boy. And she 'll never let harm come to him, but by this time word might have been sent, even if she could not come herself. That's what makes me anxious."

"Miss Peggy loves the boy as we do," Mrs. Mummer answered.