I went downstairs, intending to follow her directions; but as I passed the drawing-room door I heard the piano, and thought I recognized, from the touch, whose fingers were straying at random over the keys. “Isn’t that Miss Walton?” I asked of the servant, as he brought me my hat and coat. “Yes, Dr. Hartzmann. Miss Walton is to go to the ball with the ladies, and is waiting for them to come downstairs,” he told me. I left him holding my coat, and passed noiselessly between the curtains of the portière. Your back was turned to me as you sat at the instrument, and I stood in silence watching you as you played, till suddenly—was it sympathy, or only the consciousness of something alien?—you looked around. I should almost think it was the former, for you expressed no surprise at seeing me standing there, even though you rose. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” I begged. “I was only beguiling the time I have to wait,” you replied. “It will be a favor to me if you will go on,” I said, and without another word, with that simple grace and sweetness natural to you, you resumed your seat and went on playing, while I sat down on the divan. Your bent, like mine, was for some reason a sad one, and what you played reflected your mood, stirring me deeply and making me almost forget my misery. Presently, however, I was seized with a paroxysm of coughing; and when I had recovered enough to be conscious of anything, I found you standing by me, looking both startled and compassionate. “You are ill, Dr. Hartzmann,” you said, anxiously. “It is nothing,” I managed to articulate. “Can I do anything for you?” you asked. “Nothing,” I replied, rising, more wretched than ever, because knowing how little I deserved your sympathy. “It would be a pleasure to help you, Dr. Hartzmann, for I have never been able to show any gratefulness for your kindness over my book,” you went on, with a touch of timidity in your tones, as if you were asking a favor rather than conferring one. Won by your manner, before I knew what I was doing, I spoke. “Miss Walton,” I burst out, “you see before you the most miserable being conceivable, and you can save me from the worst anguish I am suffering!” Your eyes enlarged in surprise, both at my vehemence and at what I had uttered, while you stood looking at me, with slightly parted lips; then you said sweetly, “Tell me what I can do for you.” I had spoken without thought, only conscious that I must try in some way to save you. For a moment I hesitated, and then exclaimed, “I beg of you not to marry Mr. Whitely!” Like a goddess you drew yourself up, even before you could have appreciated the full import of my foolish speech, and never have I seen you look more beautiful or queenly than as you faced me. After a brief silence you answered, “You can hardly realize what you are saying, Dr. Hartzmann.” “I am indeed mad in my unhappiness,” I groaned. “You owe me an explanation for your extraordinary words,” you continued.