The band, with Volmer Holm as leader, furnished the music; and beautiful it was, as it echoed from the porch out over the assembly on the lawn. When the strains of a waltz floated out, a dozen couples glided softly over the velvety grass. "That's fine music, Volmer," Rupert was saying to the bandmaster, as the music ceased. "Do you think so? We've practiced very much since our new organization was effected. Will it do for a concert?" "You know I'm no judge of music. I like yours, though, Volmer. What do you say about it, Miss Wilton? Mr. Holm wishes to know if his music is fit for a concert?" "Most certainly it is," answered the young lady addressed, as she stepped up with an empty peach basket. "Mr. Holm, I understand that last piece is your own composition? If so, I must congratulate you; it is most beautiful." "Thank you," and he bowed as he gave the signal to begin again. "Mr. Ames, more peaches are wanted--the big yellow ones. Where shall I find them?" "I'll get some--or, I'll go with you." He was getting quite bold. Perhaps the music had something to do with that. He did not take the basket, but led the way out into the orchard. It was quite a distance to the right tree. "That is beautiful music," said she. "Mr. Holm is a genius. He'll make his mark if he keeps on." "Yes, I understand that he is going East to study. That will bring him out if there is anything in him." There was a pause in the conversation; then Rupert remarked carefully, as if feeling his way: "Yes, there's talent in Volmer, but he makes music his god, which I think is wrong." "Do you think so?" she asked. What that expression meant, it was hard to say. "Yes, I think that no man should so drown himself in one thing that he is absolutely dead to everything else. Mr. Holm does that. Volmer worships nothing but music."