and indicating how an effective point might be improved. But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all. But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a song she had just been learning. “What is it?” I asked. “From Le Désert of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music. It was the “O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente,” originally written for tenor. “I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the music. “Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began. Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. As the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her life out upon my shoulder. By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I mustered voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?” Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer. I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first. “It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?” No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single question, imposed but a single condition. I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged that we should be married the first week in August. Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo? “It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?” “Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.”