From that moment the soul
of the old man was knit to the soul of the child, and they
loved each other with a love surpassing that of women.
Felix's only inheritance from his father was his love of music.
But the child had genius, where his father had possessed only talent.
To Martin Moore's outward mastery of the violin was added the mystery
and intensity of his mother's nature, with some more subtle
quality still, which had perhaps come to him from the grandmother
he so strongly resembled. Moore had understood what a career was
naturally before the child, and he had trained him in the technique
of his art from the time the slight fingers could first grasp the bow.
When nine-year-old Felix came to the Carmody manse, he had mastered
as much of the science of the violin as nine out of ten musicians
acquire in a lifetime; and he brought with him his father's violin;
it was all Martin Moore had to leave his son--but it was an Amati,
the commercial value of which nobody in Carmody suspected.
Mr. Leonard had taken possession of it and Felix had never seen it since.
He cried himself to sleep many a night for the loss of it.
Mr. Leonard did not know this, and if Janet Andrews suspected
it she held her tongue--an art in which she excelled.
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