One day Peter had gone to
see this man and had taken little Terence with him. The fiddle was
lying on the table. The two men went into another room and left
Terence by himself. They were talking busily and they forgot about
him. Then they heard a soft little tune played on the fiddle. "Who's
that playing my fiddle?" said the owner of it.
"Sure," said Peter, "we left nobody there but Terence."
They went quickly back into the room and found Terence hastily laying
the fiddle down where he had found it. "Ah, can't I leave you alone a
minute," said Peter, "but you must be meddling with things that don't
belong to you? What'll I do now if you've gone and hurt the fiddle?"
"Don't be talking that way to the child," said the musician; "sure he
did it no harm. But where at all did he learn to play that way? That's
what I'm thinking. Have you been letting him learn all this time and
never told me?"
"He never learned at all that I know of," Peter answered. "I never saw
him have a fiddle in his hand till this minute."
"It's a strange thing, then," the musician said.
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