---

Randy parked in a lot and they walked toward the prosthetics shop where Brant needed to pick up a new set of stump socks. While they waited for the light to change at a busy intersection, Brant pointed to a stocky young policeman on the other side of the street, whose crew-cut hair was as black as Randy's.

"I think that's the cop told me your house was haunted."

Randy looked at the officer then punched Brant lightly on the arm. "Come on." They crossed the street and Randy crept up behind the officer, flinging his arms around his waist and lifting him from the pavement.

"What tha ... !" came the startled shout as the cop's hand fumbled for his night-stick.

"Got'cha!" Randy said and set him down. "Tohiju, Running Bear."

"Damn it, Sequoyah! I've told you not to sneak up on me like that. One of these days you're gonna get hurt."

"If you were a real Indian you'd be able to tell when someone's behind you. Besides, it serves you right for telling my buddy our house is haunted."

"Aw, shit. Was that kid a friend of yours?"

"Yeah." He motioned Brant closer. "Oginalii Brant. Oginalii Running Bear."

The officer glanced around cautiously. "You know I don't speak the old language, Sequoyah, and knock off that Running Bear stuff." He shook hands with Brant. "I'm Mike Evans."

Randy punched him on the arm. "Don't be so damned sensitive, Mike. You know I wouldn't call you that if unakas were around. Want a cup of coffee with us?"

"Can't. The sergeant is riding around checking on us. Good to meet you, Brant. See you, Sequoyah."

"Why'd you call him Running Bear?" Brant asked after the officer had moved on.

"Just to jerk his chain. It's his Indian name. I found out from my grandfather who knows Mike's grandfather. They're into some of the old ways, too, but they never could get Mike interested. I wouldn't use his Indian name if anybody else was around because he likes being a cop and he's scared it'll screw things up if they find out he's Indian. He's only a quarter blood so it's easy for him to pass. Dad and I are the only ones who know."

"What was it you called us when you introduced us?"

"You mean oginalii?"

"Yeah, and the other word, too."

"Tohiju means how are you. It's more friendly than 'siyo. Oginalii means friend to me. It tells the other person we're best friends."

"I like that. Going to tell me your Indian name?"

Randy grimaced. "You don't miss much. I guess I shouldn't have called Mike Running Bear with you around, because I might of known you'd pick up on it. Look, I'll tell you if you promise not to use it. I mean we use our Indian names mostly on special occasions because we understand how they come about, but we don't like somebody who isn't Indian using them."

"I promise."

"In English it's Tall Tree Alone on the Mountain, but I'm called Tall Tree."

Brant looked up at Randy. "It fits."

"Yeah. Let's go."

Once Brant had the purchase in hand, they took advantage of a break in traffic to jaywalk across the street. A time ravaged man, a bundle of sticks covered in rags, sat cross-legged on the sidewalk leaning precariously to one side. He might have fallen over had he not been propped against the dingy brick wall of an old building. His dark wrinkled face aged leather; long gray-streaked black hair in two braids flowed from under a battered black felt hat. His position impeded foot traffic along the sidewalk, so that well-dressed business and professional people stepped to the curb with a look of disgust. Leaving Brant, Randy walked directly to him and pressed a five-dollar bill into one of the gnarled hands. "O'siyo, Grandfather. For food," he said respectfully.

The eyelids raised, dark eyes searched Randy's face seeking recognition. Finding none, they closed once more.

"He's your grandfather?" Brant asked when Randy walked back to where he waited.

Randy shook his head, his expression infinitely sad. "No. He's homeless, I guess. Most likely an alcoholic."

Open disbelief filled Brant's face. "Then why'd you call him grandfather and give him money?"

"He's one of us. To call him grandfather shows respect for his age. You saw how all those good Christian unakas moved away like they were afraid they might catch something. Only another Indian would understand and give him the respect his age demands. His circumstances make no difference. Gayule jiwonuh."

Brant sensed the words meant Randy would say no more. While many of the things that seemed to motivate him to action remained incomprehensible, Brant was deeply impressed by this simple gesture, not the generosity, but that Randy would speak soft words of respect to someone like the old man.

They settled into a routine of study and practice, with Brant now spending most of his time with Randy. Dr. von den Acker increasingly shared himself with them, taking them to museums and concerts, often sitting in the music room listening to them play together. On the one occasion when Randy's father played an organ duet with his son, Brant recognized his skill as a musician.

Brant became so at ease with him that over dinner with them one evening he asked several questions. When he had answered, von den Acker smiled. "I wish I had you in class, Brant. I answer my students and they tend to blank out, but I seem to inspire you to ask more."

Brandt blushed. "I don't mean to bother you, sir, but I want to know more about the Cherokee traditions. That way I can understand Randy better."

"Your interest delights me, Brant. Never hesitate to ask me any questions you might have. I'm sure that Sequoyah has taught you much and I'm pleased that you want to know more of his heritage."

His pleasure continued in Brant's frequent questions, especially those about Cherokee history and culture, and gave his explanations with decisive authority. The clipped sentences in which he often spoke had an impending harshness, but underneath lay a subtle wit which surfaced just when Brant feared there might be a display of temper. Used to the same trait in Randy by now, Brant eagerly looked forward to the university and enrolling in some of von den Acker's classes, though he felt a little intimidated after having flipped through a copy of the university's catalogue to find: von den Acker, Willem P., B.A., M.A., PhD, Cultural Anthropology, Eminent Professor, followed by a lengthy list of his books.

One evening as Brant was about to leave for home, von den Acker called him into his study. "I plan to entertain your parents at dinner. If they accept, I'll have it here instead of the club so that you and Sequoyah can play the duets you worked up for the competition, if you would."

"Sure. Just my parents coming?"

"I plan to invite several others who I think will enjoy hearing you also."

A couple of weeks before the party, a crew of painters began work on the outside trim of the house, while gardeners brought the overgrown shrubbery and gardens into order. The morning of the party, a cleaning service charged through the mansion leaving polished surfaces in their wake. Others began to arrive even before Randy left for school.

"The old man's about to blow my mind," he said when he stopped for Brant.

"How?"

"He had me up in the organ last night tuning it and the services have got the whole place turned inside out. It's just like before mom died. I can't believe how you brought him back like he used to be."

"What did I do?"

"It started when he heard us practicing the Saint-Saëns. He and mom used to play it together for fun, but they were good. I'd forgotten about it until he mentioned it while he was helping me tune."

Unmindful of the singular honor of an invitation to the board chairman's home, Brant's father was furious that the affair would not be held at the club.

"I simply can't understand why he invited us to his home instead of the faculty club, particularly since I know they have a few members who aren't connected with the university. I've never been in a place this long without my position being recognized."

"I wouldn't go if you didn't think it was so damned important. I detest the man and that son of his is even worse. I can't for the life of me understand what Brant finds so attractive about either of them. I doubt it'll be much of anything, since I've heard he's a widower," Brant's mother complained.

When they drove through the gate, they were awed by the renewed garden, their doubts growing stronger as they viewed the dark Victorian mansion. "My god, it looks like something from a Gothic novel," she commented sourly, her few expectations vanishing.

"It's an old family, so you might have expected the house to be something of the sort." He retorted.

As they got out of the car, she looked again at his dark suit and then to her own blue cocktail dress, ornamented with a string of pearls. "I hope we aren't under-dressed."

"Overdressed, more likely. The invitation said informal."

"But that means different things in different places, and it's certainly more formal here than it was back in that dinky little Hillston." Her doubts increased when a butler opened the door and ushered them into the large reception room which glistened under two crystal chandeliers. Large flower arrangements throughout the room added color and fragrance; the antique Oriental rugs and polished furniture whispered refinement.

von den Acker left the group with which he'd been talking and walked toward them with a welcoming smile. "Come in, come in." Once they each had the requested martini in hand, he led them to the other guests, standing near the open French doors which led into the garden. Each of the other guests held a glass of wine. The men were dressed in dinner jackets, while the women wore dinner gowns, adding to her unease.

"You know Doctor Williamson, of course," von den Acker said as Petersen immediately greeted the man who also served on the bank's board. "And this is Mrs. Williamson, Marjorie; Doctor and Mrs. Hilton, Hank and Helen; Doctor Rex Mitchell [Brant's mother stared at him, disbelieving that someone looking hardly older than her son held a doctorate]; and Tom Matthews, my graduate assistant."

Immediately after the introductions had been acknowledged, Brant's mother looked around for him, finally seeing him standing with Randy at the far side of the group. Her eyes widened, for he wore a dinner jacket as did Randy and sipped sparingly at his glass of white wine, seeming perfectly at ease.

The serious conversation centered around music, eliciting sharply voiced opinions from Hilton, Mitchell, and Matthews. Brant's parents found themselves excluded after his mother's comment about the 'big band' era brought a wry comment from Mitchell and raised eyebrows. Matthews expounded on the development of polyphony, causing Mitchell to exclaim that arguing with the group was worse than defending his dissertation, bringing a loud guffaw and a sharp rejoiner from Hilton.

"Are you certain you aren't in the wrong department, Tom?" von den Acker asked Matthews. "You may be my graduate assistant, but I'm beginning to think music is your area instead of anthropology."

"Just trying to emulate you, sir," Matthews replied quickly.

"He's got you there, dad," Randy quipped.

A few moments later, Hilton's gruff voice cut through the conversations and into Brant's mother's consciousness. "Just what makes you think so?" Unaware that Hilton was godfather to Randy and already acquainted with Brant by association, she was horrified to find the question directed at Brant.

In a voice too low for her to hear, Brant vigorously defended his position, at last rewarded by Hilton's broad smile and a 'well done.'

She joined the women, but after a few polite comments to her, their conversation turned back to the book being read by each of them as members of the university's morning book club. As she had not read the book, indeed, she seldom read anything beyond an occasional magazine or a paperback romance she kept carefully hidden in her bedroom, she moved away from them and looked around the room. Only Brant noticed the disdainful curl of her lip when she looked at the portrait of Randy's mother then quickly placed her attention on von den Acker's collection of antique Delftware, envy growing as she gazed at the vast display. In the center of the expanse of shelves, space was given to a modest painting, jeweled colors glowing under a small spotlight. She was about to dismiss it when she looked for a second time. Her mouth dropped open, knowing with certainty that she looked at a Vermeer, vaguely remembering an illustration of it in her college humanities text. She started at von den Acker's chuckle.

"I see you've found the oldest thing in the house."

"This is the original?"

"Oh, yes. It was in the family when they moved to this country." He shrugged. "Of course, it's from his early period and hardly as notable as his later work."

Shocked at this casual dismissal of a treasure, she added, "You have a marvelous collection of Delft ware. It's beautiful."

"Thank you. I'm always pleased to find someone who appreciates it. Our family originated near Delft and was for some years involved with the company. I'm sorry that I can't show you the really fine antique pieces, but they're on loan to a museum. I'm pleased they're where others might enjoy them, though."

She felt relieved when the butler's announcement of dinner released her from the conversation, only find herself being escorted into the dining room by von den Acker and seated at his right. The eleven of them occupied but half the expanse of the table. She suppressed a gasp of astonishment at the priceless antique pieces that comprised the table setting, not doubting her recognition of the old Meissen china pattern, Lalique crystal, the expanse of heavy sterling flatware. A low spreading flower arrangement centered the snowy linen tablecloth trimmed with hand-tied lace, flanked by tall silver candelabra, each holding nine flaming tapers. The huge Waterford chandelier had been dimmed to the level of the candles.

von den Acker leaned toward her. "You must forgive an eclectic dinner, but it comprises favorites of Sequoyah's and mine, and Brant has made requests also."

Her intended reply was suppressed by Helen's laugh. "Casual indeed, Bill. You set the best table in town and I wouldn't put it past Hank to have gotten on his knees and begged for the invitation."

"I did, my dear. I did," Hilton replied with a chuckle.

His mother knew the fresh shrimp cocktail had been one of Brant's requests. Gazpacho was served as the soup course, causing Mrs. Williamson to comment, "Bill, you're the only person alive who would dare serve gazpacho after shrimp."

Next came crab and lobster meat in pannikins of still sizzling butter, a sorbet, then seemingly endless bowls of vegetables. Matthews peered down the table at Randy. "Sequoyah, did you cut the asparagus especially for me?"

"For who else? They're the first of the season. I remember last time you ate so much there wasn't enough to go around. That's why we're having all these other veggies tonight."

The table erupted in laughter, Matthews loudest of all.

The butler served from a platter of filets, having poured appropriate wines for each course.

The end of the meal was as simple as its beginning. A fresh strawberry tart topped with a swirl of whipped cream was set before them. Two faint but distinct flavors underlay the strawberries. Randy gave Brant a wink as speculation arose.

"I say it's a touch of ginger," Mrs. Williamson declared.

"Bravo," von den Acker said. "And the other?"

More discussion until Brant's mother, tasting the whipped cream again, ventured, "I believe a hint of raspberry."

"Quite right." He looked the length of the table at his son. "Sequoyah, were you in the kitchen tonight?" Randy only smiled. "I thought so. If whipped cream is served with fruit in this house, Sequoyah can't rest until he's added a dash of framboise. I'd like to taste plain cream just once more."

When the desert was finished, von den Acker arose. "As this is a simple gathering of friends, we shall have coffee and liqueurs in the music room."

"Oh, God, not that awful organ," groaned Hilton.

"Just for your edification, Hank, I've selected the most atrocious rolls in the collection."

"The hell you say."

As they entered the burgundy and gold music room, Brant's parents were astonished at the instruments and the decor. All that's missing are the little gilt chairs, she thought, remembering illustrations of Victorian soirees. Instead, conversational groupings of comfortable sofas and club chairs were placed throughout the room. No one missed the boys and conversations flowed until von den Acker turned on the lamps on the instruments and started the organ blower.

"Hank, it's time for you to pay for dinner."

"I'm not going to play that thing," he snorted.

"Certainly not. You're going to endure."

After an earlier discussion, the boys had decided against the Dupre and chosen the Saint-Saëns. The balance between the two instruments was perfection as the rippling arpeggios of the piano over the sustained chords of the organ began the Fantasie.

Hilton was on his feet the moment the last notes died away. "Beautiful!" He rushed to shake Brant's hand and to hug Randy. "I can't believe you boys have done so well with a difficult work. Brant, you were correct in not attempting the 'Chorale'; it's a little beyond your experience at this point, but I'll be happy to work with you on it." He glanced at Mitchell. "Rex, it was romantic, but it was damn well played." He turned back to the boys. "Was this the piece you played for the competition?"

Randy shook his head. "We played the Dupre Variations. We worked on this just for fun."

"Damn! Play it so I can hear you with real music."

They stared at each other for a moment before, with a wink at Randy, Brant began the exposition of the theme with Randy entering a few measures later and the piece began to grow in intensity. They had played only a few measures more before they realized that, completely relaxed, they were playing better than they had at the competition. Their technique became even tighter. When they reached a few measures that Brant played alone, Randy glanced at his godfather. The large man lay back in his chair, eyes closed, a look of contentment on his face. A swift glance at Brant's parents showed their strained expressions, particularly when the structure of the composition moved towards the mildest dissonance.

At the conclusion, Hank arose and fixed the boys' attention with a stern look and pointed finger. "You both know the caliber of music you've just performed, don't you?"

Randy nodded while Brant shook his head.

"Since you don't, Brant, I'll say that it's a piece only my better students would be given. If I were grading you, I'd probably give you a B+. The opening measures should have been as cohesive as the rest." Randy's smile widened, knowing that his godfather taught only graduate students and had a reputation for low grades. "But as you're both still in high school," Hank broke into a broad smile, "you more than deserve the Outstanding you received at the competition. I'm just surprised that the judges recognized the piece. Good works for piano and organ aren't all that common." He walked over to the piano and grabbed Brant's hand. "I meant what I said about working with you. I know it will be a pleasure." He switched his gaze to Randy. "And you're not going to goof off, Sequoyah. Steiner has agreed that Rex will take you for organ until you begin at the university."

He turned to Mitchell. "Rex, I know damned well you would have given them an A for both pieces, but you have to admit the Dupre was extraordinary for boys this age. It also gives you a chance to see what you're going to have to put up with. If my godson gets out of hand, just take a tomahawk to him."

Mitchell chuckled. "If you weren't so stingy with grades, you'd give them an A. They deserve it." He looked at the boys. "You guys are exceptional. I have some students I wish could do so well. Have you anything else?"

"We've worked up the Sowerby Dialogue and a few things for four hands," Randy replied.

"Let's hear them."

Hilton was lavish in his praise of the Sowerby, the Hancock, and the Mozart, while Rex admired their performance of the Merkle work they played last. Hilton dismissed it as trite. "Why are you wasting your time on trash?"

"Where else can I find a terrific pedal cadenza like that?" Randy countered.

"Show off!" Hank snapped, then smiled at him affectionately.

The others began to compliment them. Brant's father shook his hand. "Well done," he said, conceding that Brant had opened doors remaining closed to him.

"I wonder where Brant got that dinner jacket," his mother commented as he started the car.

"How the hell should I know? I certainly didn't get it for him. I suppose he wasted more of the money he got from that damned sister of mine. A dinner jacket for a kid his age is ridiculous. But at least he's not underfoot all the time whining about that damned leg since he's been hanging around with that Indian. Why didn't you tell me everyone would be wearing dinner clothes?"

"You should have known. You're certainly more in touch with what goes on in this place than I am, considering the amount of time I've had to spend getting the house straightened out." She retorted. "At least my dress was adequate, but I'll have to go shopping for a dinner gown if you're going to insist on entertaining."

"I don't know why. Lord knows you have enough dresses you don't wear."

"And why would I have anything like they were wearing tonight? I certainly didn't need it in that place we moved from. God knows I hope you don't invite those people."

"You know von den Acker is chairman of the board and holds considerable stock, and we'll have to have the Williamsons as well since he's on the board. What did you find so wrong with them anyway?"

"The whole thing was a bore and the music was terrible. I wish Brant would learn to play something recognizable."

In their own car, the Hiltons expressed openly what everyone had come to feel during the evening. Helen barely waited for the car to move. "Hank, please tell me how such vacuous people can have such a beautiful and talented child."

"Damned if I know!" He exploded. "They certainly don't deserve a son like that. And to be so crass as to try to trade on his talent instead of giving him the support and encouragement he needs. It's a shame the boy had to lose a leg, but I'm thankful it was his left so that he isn't hampered in his use of the sustain pedal. It's difficult to tell his left one is artificial, he uses it so well when he needs to use two pedals at the same time.

"But what that boy has done for Bill and Sequoyah is nothing short of a miracle. Neither of them has been like this since Nona died. I haven't seen Sequoyah so happy since he used to play around the house and my office as a child and Bill is delighted with the way his grades have improved. He credits it all to Brant's influence. He's thrilled with the way Brant asks questions about the Cherokee, trying to learn something of Sequoyah's heritage."

"Then it's no wonder Sequoyah's so happy with Brant as a friend. Brant's such a sweet natured, thoughtful young man. Even when he was disagreeing with you, he was most respectful. I find him quite attractive and I hope Sequoyah will bring him to the house often. I must say that I don't want to ever lay eyes on either of his parents again."

"I hope Bill will take him in hand since they apparently don't give a damn about him. I meant what I said, too. He's already beyond many of my students in ability." He smiled at her. "I hope he'll decide to come to the university with Sequoyah. If he does, I'll continue to teach him."

"Then you do plan to work with him?"

"Absolutely. I told him I would, didn't I?"

"But except for Sequoyah, you haven't taken a student that young in years, and you haven't taught an undergraduate since before you became head of the department."

"There's a first time for everything, my dear. Besides, Brant is already the equal of some of my better students in talent. He just needs development and I want to be damn certain nobody messes him up. Nowell is a sound teacher, but he lacks imagination."

In their own car, the Williamsons also discussed Brant's parents. Dr. Williamson's assessment of Petersen's position, which had the bank operating more profitably than ever, brought the only kind comment. "He's an astute leader; we're fortunate in that. A shame he has to be a social boor."

"I'll tell you one thing right now," snapped his wife. "I'll just be damned if I'll entertain that social climbing bitch in my home. Dear Lord, they don't even know how to dress for dinner."

A couple of weeks after the dinner party, Brant started toward the piano for his lesson, but Mr. Nowell motioned him to take the chair in front of his desk, tapping an envelope with his finger. "This is from Doctor Hilton." Brant looked at him in surprise. "I can't begin to tell you how happy this makes me," Mr. Nowell continued, "because except for Randy, this is the first time I know of that he's taken someone your age. Since there's very little I can offer you in comparison, I hope you're going to take advantage of this opportunity."

"But I thought Doctor Hilton was kidding when he said he was going to work with me."

"He doesn't joke about musical ability. He and I have already spoken on the phone and you'll continue with me, only now I'll help you prepare for his lessons and work with you and Randy on things for four hands. He wants you on Tuesdays at seventh hour, so I'll arrange with the office for you to leave early." He noticed Brant's worried expression. "What's wrong?"

"How am I going to get to the university on time? I mean I'll have to take the city bus."

"I believe that's all arranged. Now, let's try that Brahms."

Randy was waiting when Brant came out of the studio after his lesson. "Hank came through. I start with Rex on Tuesday."

"That's when I'm supposed to start with him."

"Great! I knew he'd work it out. I'll drive so we can get there on time. Hank and Rex both go up the wall if you're late."

Brant looked at him resignedly. "I don't guess I'll be going."

"Why not?"

"The old man'll raise hell and say he can't afford it. He didn't want me taking piano to begin with."

"I'll fix that," Randy said smugly.

His father's roar penetrated the soft sounds coming from the stereo. Brant got up from his desk where he was finishing his homework and went down to the den where his father waited, a drink in his hand. His livid expression made Brant wary.

"What's this about you studying piano with Hilton at the university? A man in his position doesn't waste time on school kids, and if you think I'm going to throw away money on university tuition just so you can play around with something totally worthless, you're crazy."

"I thought he was just being nice when he said he would help me. Then today, Mr. Nowell had a letter from him setting it up. It couldn't cost too much for just one class, could it?"

"More than you're worth! But I suppose since it's already settled I'll have to let you. Go get ready for dinner." He swallowed the last of his drink and turned back to the bar for another, still seething from von den Acker's afternoon visit to the bank with an icy threat that left him no alternative and no way to vent his wrath. If that damned meddling sister of his hadn't started it all ...

Brant had begun his study at the age of four. While visiting his aunt, he had been unable to tear himself away from the irresistible lure of her grand piano, despite his mother's threats of a spanking. A good amateur musician herself, his aunt was delighted by such determination and the look of pleasure on Brant's face as he picked out several simple melody lines with one finger. When he replayed the melodies in thirds with two fingers, she recognized his innate ability and insisted that he be given lessons, offering to pay for both a good quality spinet and lessons from a teacher she admired. Brant's mother was quick to accede, hoping for further windfalls from her elderly sister-in-law's considerable wealth.

"You what?" Brant's father roared when she told him of the gift. To his tone-deaf ears all music sounded a cacophony of unrelated noise, only loud or soft, fast or lugubrious.

"You know you're her only relative. At her age, it would be smart to keep her happy. I don't see why all that money should go to some charity when we can use it better. If she wants Brant to take music, what's the harm? She's even buying him a piano, so it won't cost us anything. Besides, it probably won't last long anyway. You know how he changes his mind."

"Maybe not, but I'm not going to listen to him banging on it."

"He can practice before you get home.'

"And just where are you going to put it? There's so goddam much stuff in here now you can't move."

"In Brant's room."

"You'll be able to hear it through the whole house." He thought for a moment. "We can put that junk in the storage room behind the garage in the attic and put the piano in there; then we can't hear it."

"She'll have a fit. Putting a piano in an unheated place like that will ruin it."

"Oh, all right. If it'll keep the two of you from complaining, I'll get it fixed up."

The carpenter took only a day in insulating the space and putting up plywood paneling. An outlet for a light, a second-hand wall-mounted electric heater which functioned sporadically, and a bit of carpet from a remnant store created a small roughly finished accommodation. His father provided nothing better in hopes of discouraging Brant's fascination, but Brant delighted in hours of practice, even when the brutal cold of Minnesota winters and the asthmatic heater left the room barely warm enough to keep his fingers limber.

Randy's assertion of Hilton's high standards left Brant worried about the upcoming lesson. Once Randy had shown him to Hilton's studio and rushed off for his own lesson with Rex, Brant placed his portfolio of music on the desk and paced the room. Hilton breezed in with a casual greeting and grabbed the music, sorting it into two stacks while muttering to himself. He finally held out a score. "I was certain Mr. Nowell wouldn't let you waste too much of your time. Let's hear you with this."

Brant went to the Steinway and played but a few measures before Hilton yelled, "Articulation! The notes aren't tied. They must be separate and crisp, but carry continuity. Like this." He seated himself at the other grand and played the passage rapidly before explaining. "Mozart's sonatas are lean in structure. Each note must sound through clearly, which means they must be perfectly played. Now relax and try again."

Brant took a moment to compose himself and began, only to be stopped once more for further explanation. The beginnings and interruptions continued until Randy stuck his head in the door. Hilton glanced up with a surprised look. "Is it that time already?" He patted Brant on the back. "Good lesson. Continue to work on this," he remarked and walked out, leaving Brant with a stricken look.

"What's wrong?" Randy asked.

"He never let me play more than a half dozen measures before he yelled about something. I didn't get past the second page and then he says it's a good lesson."

Randy grinned. "That's just Hank. You should have heard him read me off when he was teaching me. It's either right or it's not. The only time you have to sweat it is when he sits through a whole lesson without saying anything. You think you've got it made and then he takes the hide off you."

"I guess the old man was right, I don't belong here."

"Sure you do. There's no way Hank would have bothered if he wasn't sure you could do it. Let's go."

They walked down the hall to the lift.

"How was your lesson?"

"Rex is a pussy-cat. He likes romantic repertoire so he's letting me use the Skinner organ in the old recital hall because I love it. It has all kinds of orchestral stops. If I can talk Hank into letting you do the Demerest, we can have some fun, but I'll have to catch him in the right mood. Is he going to give you the Saint-Saëns?"

"He said since we've learned the rest of it, we should learn it all. We start on it next time."

"Great! Then we can do the whole set. I'll get Rex to work on it with me."

The next Tuesday, Hilton placed the Saint-Saëns on the music rack. "I promised we'd work on the 'Chorale', so let's get started," he said dourly, but winked at Brant. "I'm not against all romantic music in spite of what you may think, because a lot of piano literature is romantic since the instrument developed in that period. I'm going to let you learn the Demerest because you and Sequoyah have shown flexibility and there isn't that much material around for piano and organ together, though I personally think most of it's pretty dreadful. Many of the later piano works are trashy and that seems to be what most students want to play." He fixed Brant with a stern look. "If you dare tell anyone I enjoy some trashy music, I'll wring your neck." He passed Brant the score of Mozart's Seventeenth Piano Concerto. "I also want you to learn this."

"But it's with orchestra, sir."

"I'll play a piano reduction of the orchestral score while you learn it. It won't hurt you to learn something for the piano as a solo instrument."

Once he became familiar with Hilton's teaching style and with Mr. Nowell's help, Brant relaxed and learned rapidly.