I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her eyes. I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street. Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as abruptly and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.” “Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in. “I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my noticing.” I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.” Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside to let some one pass. “Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so early?” I explained. “Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will play it for you.” He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.