“She is little and quick and brown and laughing. We Greeks love laughter. She laughed at me because she said I had solemn eyes like an owl. Then I kissed her and she did not laugh, but clung to me, and I felt her tears. That evening we heard 'La Bohême.' hand in hand, and I played it to her afterward. I have played it to her ever since. When I would speak to her of marriage she would set her fingers to my lips and the joy would die out of her face. Once she said I must go back and forget her. Then it was my turn to laugh. We do not love and forget, we Greeks. “She had a brother serving in the Argonne. He died dragging a wounded comrade to safety. She was very proud of it. But the heart that had been working so poorly almost stopped working at all when they brought her the news. She sent for me to tell me that she must go to the hospital. That was why she would not let me speak of marriage. Her heart had always been weak, and she feared she might be an invalid and a burden on me. As if that mattered! 'So I could not let you speak,' she said, 'because I loved you so, and I might have been weaker than my heart.' They took her to the Samaritan. That is her room, just beyond where you see the speck of light. Every night I stand where I can see it and make my music for her. So it was arranged between us.” “But,” I began, and bit my tongue into silence. “True,” he said equably. “At such a distance she cannot hear. It does not matter. She knows I make my music for her. That is all that matters.” “How long since you have seen her?” “April the 24th.” “And this is August! Four months! Good Heavens, man, how is that?” “'_Anangke,_ Fate.” he murmured. “It could not be otherwise.” “Surely it could,” I protested. “Won't they let you see her?” He shook his head. “But that's barbarous! Think what she must be suffering.” “Oh, no. She understands. It is I who suffer.” “Needlessly,” I cried. “It can be arranged. You _must_ see her. Four months! Will you let me arrange it?” “It is useless.” I believe I took him by the shoulder and shook him. “Don't be a fool,” I bade him savagely. “I tell you, you _shall_ see her. At once. To-morrow.” He turned upon me eyes like those of an animal that pleads dumbly against torture. “It cannot be,” he said. “Why?” “She is dead,” he whispered. “Dead?” I loosed my grasp on him. “But you play--How can she--When did you--” All my thought and speech were jumbled within me. “Dead?” I finally contrived to get out. “When did she die?” “On the last day of April. When they told me of it the little children were dancing in the park. She was like a little lovely child herself. They told me she was dead, but it is only at times that I am weak enough to believe them.” I gazed at him, utterly bewildered. He returned my look with a gaze of infinite despair. “To-morrow,” he said bravely, “I shall again know that she is alive and loving me.”