I do not wonder that you feel a presentiment that your artistic future is to be shaped here; for between these influences and the other influences that will be brought to bear upon you, you will be forced to decide.

May the God of all true art and artists help you to make no mistake.

Listen!" As though in answer to the solemn words of the man who spoke from the fullness of a life-long experience and from the depths of a life-old love, a strain of music came from out the fragrant darkness.

Somewhere, hidden in the depths of the orange grove, the soul of a true musician was seeking expression in the tones of a violin.
Softly, sadly, with poignant clearness, the music lifted into the night--low and pleadingly at first; then stronger and more vibrant with feeling, as though sweetly insistent in its call; swelling next in volume and passion, as though in warning of some threatening evil; ringing with loving fear; sobbing, wailing, moaning, in anguish; clearly, gloriously, triumphant, at last; then sinking into solemn, reverent benediction--losing itself, finally, in the darkness, even as it had come.
The two men, so fashioned by nature to receive such music, listened with emotions they could not have put into words.

For the moment, the music to them was the voice of the guarding, calling, warning spirit of the mountains that, in their calm, majestic strength, were so far removed from the petty passions and longings of the baser world at their feet--it was the voice of the loving intimacy, the sweet purity, and the sacred beauty of the spirit of the garden.