“How well you are looking,” she said, gayly. “I just ran down to see if you were all right, and to jog your memory about our little celebration to-day.” “You did not need to do that, Starling. I am as eager as a schoolboy for my day of pleasure,” he returned, with a fond smile, adding: “But how dainty you are this morning. I shouldn’t wonder if our artist friend would be wanting to paint the picture of a ‘star’ one of these days, eh?” Star blushed and laughed lightly. She could have told him, had she chosen, that it was already painted. But she only charged him playfully to make himself look as young and charming as possible if he intended to be her escort to Coney Island; then waving him a farewell, she tripped away with a smile on her lips, a song in her heart. He stood and watched her out of sight, murmuring, with something like regretful fondness: “My bright Star, somebody will want something more substantial than a painting if you are onehalf as attractive in his eyes as you are in mine.” The little German professor of whom Star took music lessons rubbed his small fat hands with delight, his face dimpling all over with smiles, when she came like a ray of light into his room. “Ach! but der fraulein should have been called Miss Gladheart,” he said, regarding her admiringly. “She is as bright as der day, as fair as der morn; she is like a flower dot is newly bloomed.” Star laughed merrily. It seemed ludicrous enough to her to hear this fat little man, with his bald pate, his red face, dumpy legs, and his broken English—who scarce ever was known to express a thought that was not connected with music before—bubble over thus unexpectedly with sentiment. “Oh, Professor Schwab, you overwhelm me!” she cried, gayly; “and I’m almost certain that your compliments will degenerate into a veritable scolding before I have been here fifteen minutes, for I fear I am not in very good order to-day, my head is full of pleasure.” “Pleasure is good now and then; it is made for youth,” the professor remarked, with a sigh, and a glance at Star’s bright face and dainty costume, as if he regretted that he was no longer young. “I want you to let me go in just half an hour, for this is to be a holiday,” Star said, as she removed her hat and gloves. “Der fraulein shall do shust vat she pleases—I can refuse her notting to-day; but,” he added, assuming a business-like air, “let her mind dot she keep her fingers right and der time goot.” Star settled down at once to her work with such earnestness of purpose that she really outshone herself, executing her brilliant and difficult exercises in a way that would have done credit to the composer himself. “Verra goot—excellent goot! Der heart is glad, her hopes are bright, and der work is well done. Miss Gladstone, in six months I teach you notting more; you go to Germany—to Italy, to study,” he said, his face beaming with satisfaction at her proficiency.