True enough, he was gazing into her kindly, grey-blue eyes--he was doing so simply because he could not help it--and thinking to himself that never in all the world had he seen a maiden so beautiful. “Something seems to pass from her into myself,” he reflected. “And that something is making my heart beat and boil. My God, what a joy to the eye she is!” “The important question,” she went on, “is how to preserve you from feeling _ennuyé_.” “You can do that by singing to me again.” “Ah, I was expecting that compliment!” The words came from her in a sudden burst as of pleasure. “Do you know, had you not uttered that gasp after I had finished singing the other evening, I should never have slept all night--I should have cried my very eyes out.” “Why?” he asked. “I do not know. I merely know that that time I sang as I had never done before. Do not ask me to sing now, however--I could not do it.” Nevertheless she did sing to him again; and, ah! what did that song not voice? It seemed to be charged with her very soul. As she finished, his face was shining with the happiness of a spirit which has been moved to its utmost depths. “Come!” she said. “Why do you look at me like that?” “Yet she knew why he was doing so, and a modest touch of triumph that she could so greatly have affected him filled her soul. “Look at yourself in the mirror,” she went on, “and you will see that your eyes are shining, and that--yes, really!--they have tears in them. How deeply you must feel music!” “No--it is not music that I am feeling,” he replied slowly; “but--but _love!_” ‘Her glance met his, and instantly she saw that he had uttered the word in spite of himself, that the word had got him in its power, and that the word had voiced the truth. Recovering himself, he picked up his hat, and left the room. When he had gone she remained standing like a statue by the piano--her eyes cast down, and her breast rising and falling tumultuously. II