As before, a great log fire burned on the hearth; but he needed more
light now, than mere fitful fire-gleams. He wanted to examine the
Infant.
He looked round the room, and there, on a wide settee under one of the
windows, lay a polished rosewood 'cello-case.
Ronnie, springing forward, bent down eagerly. The key was in the lock.
He turned it, and lifted the lid.
There lay the Infant, shining and beautiful as ever, in a
perfectly-fitting bed, lined with soft white velvet. The whole thing
carried out exactly Ronnie's favourite description of his 'cello: "just
like the darkest horse-chestnut you ever saw in a bursting bur." The
open rosewood case, with its soft white lining, was the bursting bur;
and within lay his beautiful Infant!
Helen had done this.
Ronnie's pleasure was largely tinged with pain. Helen, who did not like
his 'cello, had done this to please him, yet was not here to see his
pleasure.
Ronnie drew forth the bow from its place in the lid, opened a little
nest which held the rosin, then tenderly lifted the Infant of Prague and
carried it to the light.
At first sight, its shining surface appeared perfect as ever. Then,
looking very closely, and knowing exactly where to look, Ronnie saw a
place just above the _f_ hole on the right, where a blow had evidently
been struck deeply into the 'cello. A strip of wood, four inches long,
by one inch wide, had been let in, then varnished so perfectly that the
mend--probably the work of a hundred years ago--could only be seen in a
good light, and _by one who knew exactly where to look_.
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