to be posted to Heidelberg; he had almost reached the limit of time allowed, and yet even under the stimulus of knowing this-perhaps because of it-he could not finish the poem. Either he had been overtaxing himself, or else for no good reason his powers had momentarily failed him. Genius does sometimes play these unhandsome tricks upon her children, and cannot always be relied upon to work to order. Carl knew perfectly well what he wanted to say and express, but the right language perpetually evaded him. In searching for and choosing a word that pleased him he would forget the context, and knew that the very fire and life of his composition was being extinguished by mere mechanical difficulties.

Throwing aside the pen, he folded his arms on the desk to support a weary drooping head. No strength of will could avail against the inertia that was creeping like a dead mist over his faculties, and he saw no escape from failure; yet it was hard, to give up with the work SO well begun and more than half accomplished.

From the very depth of his despondency he was roused by a certain sound which once he had anathematisedbut that was before Kathleen's deep blue eyes had smiled into his-and petitioned of Providence that all music students might be gathered together into one dissonant bunch and solemnly prohibited. But now, although the scale in C Major is not beautiful, even upon a violin, it seemed to him hope personified, and without a moment's hesitation he ascended a single flight of stairs and knocked at Kathleen's door.

Receiving permission, he opened it, and in his trouble never noticed her quick, disappointed glance at his empty hands. She herself was dressed as daintily as means would permit,

and fortunately at homely German courts an ex-pupil of the Conservatoire may play before even Serene Highnesses in a slightly glorified Sunday frock. But it was a sharp disappointment that Carl had so evidently forgotten her flowers-and how pale and strange he looked!

"Mein Fräulein! I am in the saddest difficulty. My poem refuses to finish itself. There is something lacking in me, but I know not what, and the hours are getting few. It might be, that if you played to me even a little the mists would clear."

She knew him as a man of moods, for so the poet is made, but until then she had never seen him dejected or cast down. She rose instantly, her whole heart drawn to him in his need, and feeling strong to help. How fortunate that excitement and unrest had made her be ready so much too soon! Why, there was an hour, nearly two, before she and the violin need set out! She would not even mention her engagement lest he should remember the flowers and be vexed with himself. Thankfully he saw her glad willingness to serve him, and if her finery moved him to any thought, it was that she might be giving up a coffeeparty at some fellow-student's in order to do him a kindness. Perhaps he never even noticed it, for to him she was always fair.

"I will come," she said cheerily. "I suppose you are sitting like a shipwrecked mariner in a troubled sea of MSS., and starving for something to eat."

His rooms were somewhat larger and better furnished than hers, but still redolent of forced economy, an her very first move was a somewhat contemptuous examination of his cupboard, containing a few of the necessaries of life. For once he heard candid and unflattering comments on his larder, and her dainty sniff at the

breakfast sausage was frankly suspi

cious.

"Pouf! I would at least kill my own cats, and have them fresh! There's nothing here fit for a Christian, much less a poet! Imagine a sonnet inspired by a 'bratwurst.' Have patience a moment." With a silken rush and rustle she was in her own room again, ransacking it of dainty cakes and two fresh eggs.

With cunning deftness she smuggled the eggs into some hot strong coffee, and meekly obeying her imperious orders, he ate and drank, feeling already strengthened, while the tender strains of her violin stole refreshingly over his disturbed nerves and quieted them.

"Tell me your theme," she said, as with renewed hope he took up his pen, "and in my own way I will accompany you."

"I have named it "The Sacrifice of Love.' See! much is already accomplished. But it goes not-somehow! Here is a pastorale, so stiff, so unliving, like a set theatre scene, and nothing of what is in my heart."

She held the violin more firmly, and let the bow fall quiveringly upon the strings.

"I see, you want the birds to sing, the leaves to rustle dreamily, the stream to babble brightly in the sunshine, before it goes to sleep in the quiet shadows of some enchanted lake. Listen then, and translate into words."

She touched the chords with power, and little by little the very breath of life stirred all his dumb creation. No longer doubtful or hesitating, with the mists cleared from his brain, he worked joyfully and with zest, happily conscious that under the stimulus of her music he was doing the best that was in him. For her, it was a rich reward to see the stress and strain of vain endeavor pass from his

face, and watch the busy pen so seldom pausing or at a loss. Such a keen pleasure is the rarest that even a musician may know, but the darkening of the room warned her that she must soon leave him.

"Tell me!" she said, still playing softly that the spell might not be broken, "what is the sacrifice? What does she do?"

"Ach! It suits not me that the woman should sacrifice herself to the man. My story is otherwise told, yet even now I set it differently according to your music, which inspires me to do better than myself. I shall win the laurel crown-we shall win it together, and then the golden days shall no longer be waited for, they will be with us."

His burning enthusiasm found its true answer in her, and again the rich notes filled the darkening room. He had soon to light his lamp, and across her face, as she stood near the window, passed momentary flashes of illumination, accompanied by the swift roll of wheels. Some of the GrandDuke's guests meant to go early and get good places. She played on patiently, until the very last moment that she could spare him, and then the notes dropped softly into silence like the ceasing of summer rain. She tried to slip unobserved from the room, but before she could do so the busy pen had stopped, and Carl sat like one wakened from a dream.

"Mein Fräulein! you will never leave

her picture after all. If it had been she would not have moved quietly and wordlessly back to her place again, where the flashing of passing lamps showed her face pale and set. She was breathless with sudden renunciation-giddy from the haste of resolve, and only conscious that already his success was dearer to her than her own. Would the cost be too great, if only the setting of her sun meant for him a new and happy dawning? She thought not, and so played on, with his warm thanks ringing in her ears, and stilling the tumult of crushed hopes, played with a perfect understanding of his theme, making him wonder and rejoice at her divining power.

"The streets are noisy to-night," he said to her gaily, "but that disturbs not us. To morrow it is not poor little autumn violets that shall grace your début, but rare roses, white as your hand. When their sweetness greets you they will remind you of all I owe, and you will play the better, inspired by your own goodness."

She saw his mistake, letting it pass in silence; yet she was glad he had not forgotten her flowers, although they would be no longer needed. Her chances in Weinbergen were lost. True, the audience, with a long program to enjoy, would never miss an unknown violin soloist, but the Directorate, who had strained a point of etiquette to admit a débutante, would shake off her ungrateful dust and leave her comfortless.

Some of the carriages were already returning, and the cathedral chimes had rung out the hour of ten, before Carl Brenner had finished his task, and translated it aloud, for his English was stronger than Kathleen's German, and to them both it seemed very good.

"We shall win," he repeated, with that certainty which is sometimes proVOI. VII. 388

LIVING AGE.

phetic; and then, carried away by the joy of a well-completed task, and all the happy emotions which love, hope and gratitude bring with them, he took her suddenly in his arms and kissed her. Impulsive as the action was, he meant nothing but what was reverential, tender and thanksgiving. In his thoughts she was already his betrothed, held in highest honor and esteem, yet he had made a grave mistake. To her, it seemed as though he had desecrated the white altar on which she had laid her sacrifice, and a great revulsion of feeling against her own act and against him made her ungovernably angry, almost beside herself with scorn and self-reproach. She was Irish, with the faults and fineness of her race.

"How dare you! how dare you! Is it for this that I have? I will tear your work in pieces!"

With reckless, unreasoning fury she seized the sheets of MS. He made one quick, involuntary gesture, as though to rescue them from her, and then stood shamed and patient. If she chose to punish him so, he would submit, and to an extent his forbearance conquered her, for she flung the MS. down again.

"I will not tear the living words,they might cry out, but I hope you will fail! Do you hear?"

She was so fierce that Carl, not understanding, and himself unnerved with the day's strain and toil, hardly knew how to deal with her or allay the storm he had raised.

"Mein Fräulein!" he began gently, "I have done what is wrong, but it is because I—"

But she would not hear him, being in that passion of heat and resentment which sees nothing but itself.

"I hope you will fail!" she repeated, and so left him.

But after a while he comforted himself. "She will forgive me. To-mor

row's triumph will soften her heart, and she will understand all the joy and forgive. I have no fear at all!"

He went out then to calm himself down with the, cool river breeze, and found the streets full of a joyous crowd, who were returning from the palace, where they had been cheering the illustrious guests as they came out from the concert. At first Carl gave no heed to them, but a few words overheard quickened his fears, and he asked a bystander what was the reason of so many people being about at that hour.

"There has been a grand concert at the palace. Nothing worse, and we have just been shouting ourselves hoarse for all the pretty women. You missed something, I can tell you!” "What! the concert to-night? Then there is one also tomorrow?"

"No, it is the parting festivity! The Grand-Duke goes early to morrow to Berlin."

Carl went on dazed, and all the bright lights shining on the river turned dim in his sight.

"Ach Gott! the little Käszlein! She has sacrificed herself for me, and IAch Gott!"

If only she had heard his passion of remorseful tenderness, her hurt would have been healed; but although he tried to see her the next day he failed, and the day after that she left Weinbergen without his knowledge.

For six long years he searched vainly for her, and none could understand why Carl Brenner, the successful flattered poet--for the prize poem had made his name always wrote sorrowfully, as one who had missed the best in life. But just then it was the fashion to be sad, and they suggested this as a possible reason for his melancholy.

"Miss Haynes, will you play for us again?"

Kathleen rose promptly if a little wearily, because she was paid to entertain these people. For six years she had struggled on, neither failing nor succeeding, but just balancing between the two, earning enough to feed and clothe herself, but quite outside the real artistic circle.

The ring had opened once to let her in, but she had not seized the chance, and it had closed against her inexorably. Out of Weinbergen there had been none to lend a helping hand, and she had fought her way through the years, dropping in weariness many a bright hope and ambition, and leaving it by the wayside. She had laughed sometimes, remembering the girl so young and so silly making playfellows and confidants of the very pigeons; but she was not without consolations, for Carl Brenner's work was well known in England, and it had been her labor of love to go through every line, dictionary in hand, and rejoice that he at least had caught the tide at the flood. Her rancor had soon died of its own inanition, and what was good stayed with her.

The warm auburn had faded a little from her hair, and the discipline of life had tamed her into patience; but she touched the strings with all the old love and even greater power, only the last chord instead of being true was a trembling faint discord, for advancing towards her, and parting the careless throng as he came, was Carl Brenner. The entertainment had been given in his honor, and God had sent her there to meet him. His face was simply irradiated with the joy of finding her at last, and as he caught her hands the tears were in his eyes. "Herzgeliebte! I have found youafter many days!"

And the crowd looked on in dumb amazement, dry as Gideon's fleece, whilst on the chosen two the richest dew of heaven descended. Yet the