THE next morning the crash came. The Maestro was informed that only one more performance could be allowed at the Imperial Theatre, and that, further, there were difficulties in the way of the performance being permitted in any theatre in Vienna. The old man was crushed: he came to the Signorina with the notice in his hand. "_Mia cara_," he said, making great efforts to be calm, "this is the end. I am a broken and a ruined man. I have been all my life waiting for this chance--this gift of inspiration. I thought that it would never come; it tarried so long, and I grew so old. At last it came, but only just in time. I have never written anything like this music, and never shall again. Now it is stopped. I must go. I cannot stay where it must not be played; I must go somewhere, and take my music with me. It will not be for long. The Prince will not leave Vienna. He is pleased with the city and with his reception. I must leave you all." The girl was on her feet before him, with flashing eyes which were full of tears. "Maestro!" she said; "what mean you to talk in this way? Do you suppose that I will ever leave you, that I will stay if you go? I owe everything to you. I cannot sing without you. I will follow you to Paris--anywhere. Whatever fortune awaits you shall await us both." "Ah, Tina," said the old man, "you are very good, but you mistake. I am not the great master you suppose. I know it too well. There is always something wanting in my notes. When you sing them, well and good. Even as they are they never would have been scored but for you. When I leave you the glamour will be taken out of them. They will be cold and dead: no one will think anything of them any more." "If this be true," said the girl, almost fiercely, "it is all the more reason why I will never leave you! You have made me, as the Prince said; I am yours for life. Wherever you go I will go; whatever you write I will sing. If we fail, we fail together. If we succeed, the success is yours." She paused for a moment, and then, with a deeper flush and a tender confidence which seemed inspired: "And we shall succeed! I have not yet sung my best. I, too, know it. You have not yet made me all you may. Whatever you teach me I will sing!" The old man looked at her, as well he might, deeply moved, but he shook his head. "Tina," he said, "I will not have it. You must not be ruined for me. You must not go. Other masters, greater than I, will finish what it is my happiness to have begun. The world will ring with your name. Art will be enriched with your glorious singing. I shall hear of it before I die. The old Maestro will say, 'Ah, that is the girl whom I taught.'" The girl was standing now quite calm, all trace of emotion even had past away. She looked at him with a serene smile that was sublime in its rest. It was not worth while even to say a word. * * * * *