Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with me as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an hour ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed music and found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on teaching and exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said among other things that more than half the money she earned her uncle sent to Germany for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, who were extremely poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an arrow. I grew hot with indignation to think of this frail, delicate maiden slaving her life away in order that her relations might fatten in idleness and her fanatic of an uncle work at his impossible symphony. My fists clenched convulsively as I fancied her exposed to the ups and downs, the hardships, the humiliations, of a music-teacher’s career. I took no pains to regulate my manner: and, if she had possessed the least trace of sophistication, she would have guessed that I loved her from every modulation of my voice. Love her I did. I had already loved her for an eternity—from the moment my eyes had first encountered hers in the moonlight by the terrace.—But it was getting late. It would not do for me to wear my welcome out. “Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard me play yet.” “Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The Adagio of Handel? she asked of him. “No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the minuet—from my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me. Veronika returned to the piano. They began. Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great pity, that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. Veronika and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when finally his bow had reached a standstill. “Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least agree to come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are always at home on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week Veronika is engaged: Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. The church is in Hoboken: she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. So on Wednesday we will see you without fail—yes?” As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an old brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights a week!” I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. Good-by.” Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially and sent an electric thrill into my heart. II.