Within, the personality of the absent composer lingers perceptibly, and the two names--"Edward--Marian-1899"--written in his bold chirography in the damp cement, when the cabin hearth was laid before the open fireplace, tell a touching story of a union so real as to make no plan complete, no realization of a long-cherished hope perfect, that did not openly include his wife. These two were married in New York in 1884. A gifted South Carolina aunt, who went to New York after the war and soon made her way to the front rank of metropolitan teachers, gave to Marian Nevins, a country-bred girl of York State, the only musical training she ever had until she went abroad in 1880 to pursue her studies. Edward MacDowell was at that time in high favor with his masters, Heymann and Raff, at the Frankfort Conservatory, and she became his pupil. Her industry and ambition aroused his interest in the development of her talent, and he put her through a long season of severe drill and study, imparting to her all his original methods and personal ideals, as well as those acquired from his masters. It was hard work between the gifted teacher and his promising pupil, with no idea of romance; but with her preparations for her return to America, at the expiration of three years, came the revelation to each of the meaning of the impending separation, and in a twelvemonth after her departure he went to New York and returned to Germany with his bride, settling at Wiesbaden, where they spent some ideal years. While he began his career as a composer in that inspiring atmosphere and won a hearing and a verdict that opened the way to fame, it was after his return to America that he did his best work, when he freed himself from the chance of unconscious imitation and reflection and gave rein to individuality and imagination in the Peterboro retreat. Weber says: "To be a true artist you must be a true man." This tribute has been paid MacDowell by his associates: they say he was a true man. Nobleness has been called the chief characteristic alike of himself and his music, with a simplicity that is ever the accompaniment of real nobility. In playing, he had certain little tricks of using his fingers that produced certain effects, but he did not teach these to his pupils, preferring that they should use their own ingenuity, explaining: "You might find a better way than mine," showing a modest willingness to be taught, even by his own pupils, instead of always posing as master. He never forced his personality, as a man or as a musician, upon any one, choosing rather to encourage and foster originality.