He was deeply interested in my account of the doctor's poor patient, and asked more questions about Monsieur Léon than I could possibly answer. And then the gift underwent a close examination; in fact, he scarcely cared to part with it even for a moment. I had gone out of the room to speak to nurse, and when I returned I found my husband standing close to the window. He was looking into the guitar with earnest eyes, and glanced up at me as I came in, saying that he had just made a discovery. "Do go back to your sofa, dear," I entreated. "I wanted to get the light," he answered. "This is such a dark room. Louie, here is a curious thing." "Well, go back to the sofa, and then tell me what it is." "No, no," he said, petulantly, "come here and see. You know that inside a guitar there is generally a paper pasted, bearing the maker's name. Well, look at this paper, and read what is written upon it." He held the instrument up to catch the light. And then, indeed, I did see the paper, and some words inscribed upon it in a woman's hand. These words were written in Spanish, and I did not know their meaning till he translated them. "Hope guards the jewels," he read, thoughtfully. "Now, what does that mean, I wonder?" "How can we ever tell?" I cried. "What do we know of those who once owned this guitar? But you are looking fagged and pale, Ronald; and if you are going to lose your afternoon nap, I shall wish that I had never brought that thing into the house." He consented at last to lie down on the couch and shut his eyes. Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep, with the guitar lying by his side. Later on, when the soft dusk of the spring evening was creeping over Chapel Place, my husband's fingers began to wander lovingly across the strings; and I sat and listened to him in the twilight, just as I had done a hundred times before. It was the resting time of the day; my hands lay idly folded in my lap, and I was leaning back in a low chair with a sense of quietness and peace. He was not strong enough yet to sing the songs that I had written in our happy courting-days. He could only strike the chords, and bring out of them that fairy-like music which is always sweetest when it is heard in the gloaming. Presently there came again that soft, gay melody that Monsieur Léon had played, and again it stirred me with a strange surprise. Surely it was unlike anything I had ever heard before. How and where did Ronald learn it? He repeated the air, and I listened, entranced and wondering. It seemed to me that the chords were giving out a fuller sound than I had ever heard yet. "Ronald, what is that? Where did you first hear it?" I asked, raising myself, and bending eagerly towards him. He did not immediately reply. A flame shot up suddenly from the low fire, and showed me the thoughtful, dreamy look upon his face. At length he spoke.