He had been away, already longer than he intended; but still--as all fishermen will understand--he could not, on his way back down the stream, refrain from casting here and there over the pools that tempted him.
The sun was touching the crest of the mountains when he had made but little more than half the distance of his return.

He had just sent his fly skillfully over a deep pool in the shadow of a granite boulder, for what he determined must be his last cast, when, startlingly clear and sweet, came the tones of a violin.
A master trout leaped.

The hand of the unheeding fisherman felt the tug as the leader broke.

Giving the victorious fish no thought, Aaron King slowly reeled in his line.
There was no mistaking the pure, vibrant tones of the music to which the man listened with amazed delight.

It was the music of the, to him, unknown violinist who lived hidden in the orange grove next door to his studio home in Fairlands..