Moved by some impulse, which perhaps she could not have explained to herself, she took occasion when thanking Morning for saving her daughter’s life, to confide to him the history of how Ellen’s marriage had been brought about, to which she added the story of her married life, and concluded by pressing upon him for perusal, a package of her daughter’s letters. These Morning carried with him to Chicago, and their reading induced him, after parting with his distinguished guests, to hasten his return to Coronado, where he was advised that the Von Eulaw party would remain for some weeks. On a delicious afternoon the baroness, with Mrs. Thornton and Miss Winters, sat in the gallery overhanging the old music hall on the sea. Although a new and costlier edifice had been built, with improved acoustics and elaborate design, the little gem at the corner of the hotel, long washed by the waves and threatened by the breakers, seemed still a favorite resort for concert and afternoon recitals, and thither came many who sought for a restful hour under the eloquent discourse of the old white-haired professor’s violin. “It is a pity for the world,” said Miss Winters, during a pause in the performance, “that so few are able to look into the soul of Tolstoi’s labors. In one of his chapters he expresses the epitome of all musical sensations in half a dozen lines.” “I hope you are not referring to the ‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ Miss Winters,” broke in Mrs. Thornton. Miss Winters smiled rather than spoke reply. But the baroness took greater liberty and rejoined rather saucily, “The regular thing, dear mother, is to ask for some palliative to remove the taste from your mouth after the mention of the much-abused ‘Kreutzer Sonata.’” Mrs. Thornton replied with a look of high disdain and much fluttering of ribbons. “I am not punctilious, but I could not sit and listen to a defense of that man.” “I am not defending him, though I might, especially if he were my client,” laughed Miss Winters. “I am only deploring that the world will not forgive his truths nor forget his faults in the universal power of his genius.” It was well that the next on the programme was Beethoven’s seventh symphony, and that the men strolled in soon afterwards, for nothing is so prolific of enmities as the subject of Tolstoi, unless it be that of tariff. The enchanting numbers were ended, and the ladies left the hall, the men taking another direction. At the foot of the stairway they were accosted by David Morning, who, after a greeting, turned and joined the baroness. “When did you return?” said she, looking full into his bronzed face, and again at his traveling clothes. “Only this moment. And how are you? and has the baron entirely recovered?” “Completely, I believe, and for me, one could not be so ungrateful as to be ill in this place.” “I trust not,” replied Morning absently.