“Yes. I'm glad and sorry, for damn it, I was fond of the girl. Excuse me awhile, old fellow. I want to go on the pier and think awhile.” Haddon went out on the pier and looked down on the incoming waves and thought awhile. He found it a disconsolate occupation, even with a cigar to sweeten it. So he came back and mingled with the gay crowd on the boardwalk and tried to forget her. Morrow had no sooner left Haddon than he felt his arm touched. Looking around, he saw the smiling face of the loveliest girl in the world. “Well, by Jove, Edith,” he said. “At last I've found you!” “Yes. I heard you were down here. You see, I've been up in town for the last week. Gracious, but Philadelphia is hot! Here's Aunt Laura.” Morrow spent the evening with Edith. One night a week later, he proposed to her on the pier. “I will say yes,” she replied, “if you can give me your assurance that you've never been in love with any one else.” “That's easily given. You know very well you're the only girl I've ever loved.” II. -- A BIT OF MELODY [Footnote: Copyrighted by J. Brisbane Walker, and used by the courtesy of the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_.] It was twelve o'clock that Sunday night when, leaving the lodging-house for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on the following night. Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight. The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the danger of the icy pavements. “I'm t'ankful to be at last home,” he said, showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red beard. “Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera.” “Thanks for your solicitude,” I said, “but I must have my walk. Play to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. Good night.” The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the taciturnity of his countryman and confrère, with a gesture and a look of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs.