Play that last one again." The last one was taxing to the fingers, but Michael's big hands banged out the octave scale in the bass with wonderful ease, and Falbe gave a great guffaw of pleasure at the rollicking conclusion.
"Write them all down," he said, "and try if you can hear it singing half a dozen more.

If you can, write them down also, and give me leave to play the lot at my concert in January." Michael gasped.
"You don't mean that ?" he said.
"Certainly I do.

It's a fine bit of stuff." It was with these variations, now on the point of completion that Michael meant to spend his solitary and rapturous evening.

The spirits of the air--whatever those melodious sprites may be--had for the last month made themselves very audible to him, and the half-dozen further variations that Hermann had demanded had rung all day in his head.

Now, as they neared completion, he found that they ceased their singing; their work of dictation was done; he had to this extent expressed himself, and they haunted him no longer.