On the present occasion everything was in the artist’s favor,—the dying day, the spectral glare and shadow wrought by the glowing coals, the reaction after a week of frolic gladness. The bow descended upon the G string, softly as a snow-flake, but clinging as a mother’s arm. Ernst has obeyed Horace’s maxim, and plunged at once into the middle of his story. With the very first tone of the violin there seems to break from the overwrought heart a low moan, which, rising and swelling, leaps, in the second note, into a cry of rebellious anguish,—anguish too bitter to be borne; despair were more endurable; and in the fourth bar the voice of the crushed spirit sinks into a weird, muttered whisper of resignation unresigned. The whole story is there,—there in those four bars, but the poet begins anew and sings his sorrow in detail; pouring forth a lament so passionate in its frenzy that it almost passes, at times, the bounds of true music (for can you not hear the sobs, see the wringing of the hands?), and rising, at last, to a climax that is almost insupportable, the voice of wailing then sinks—for all is over—into a low plaint, and dies into silence. The _Marcia Funebre_ of the Eroica symphony is the lament of a nation of Titans; in Ernst’s Elegie one poor human heart is breaking—breaking all alone. I have heard the piece since in crowded halls and beneath the blaze of chandeliers, and performed by artists more finished, no doubt, than was the Don; but the effect he wrought I have never seen approached. All eyes were riveted upon him while he played, and when he ceased—when the last despairing sigh died upon the air—no one moved, not a note of applause was given, and the only sound heard was that of long-drawn breaths of relief. It was an intense moment. My grandfather was the first to break the spell. Approaching the Don with a tender look in his eyes, he tried, I think, to speak a few words, but could only press his hand. Then there arose a subdued murmur of whispered enthusiasm, each one to his neighbor. At last— “Billy,” said the middle-aged-fat-gentleman, “I give it up,—he can beat you.” And a ripple of laughter relieved the tension. And Mary? She and the Don happened to be among the last to leave the hall, and he offered her his arm. Neither spoke for a few moments. “How silly you must have thought me!” “I assure you—” “Oh, but you must. But I had never heard anything but fiddling before. Do you know,” she added gravely, “I doubt if any of the company understood all that you meant, save myself?” “And are you quite sure that _you_ understood all that I felt?” Mary looked up and their eyes met. Releasing his arm as she passed into the house, she colored deeply. CHAPTER XXXVIII. “Is not this Thursday?” suddenly asked my grandfather, at breakfast, a week or so after the events just described. “It is? Then this is the day for the Poythress’s return. Ah, now we shall have music.”