One word more,—he begs your pardon. He led you to believe that the opera began at eight, sharp. You were there, in your seat, on time, eager to hear the first notes of the opening chorus. But I feared that had you known there was to be a long overture you would have been late, and thereby missed certain _leitmotifs_, not to have heard which would have marred what was to follow. Honestly, now, had you known that Chapter I. was not Chapter I., nor chapter of any kind, would you have read it? Would you not have skipped it, clear and clean (for it’s a hundred to one that you are a woman), had you known that it was my Introduction? [Illustration: SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT I. _Allegro con brio._ L. van Beethoven, _“Eroica” Symphony_. {The first page of the score of the first movement of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony is shown.}] SYMPHONY OF LIFE. MOVEMENT I. CHAPTER II. As the last rays of the setting sun were gilding the modest spires of Richmond, early in the month of October, 1860, I was sitting with two young ladies at the front parlor window of a house on Leigh Street. One of these, Lucy Poythress, like myself, was from the county of Leicester; or, to speak with entire exactness, her father’s residence was separated from my grandfather’s, in that county, by a river only. She had arrived in Richmond that morning, on a visit to her friend, Alice Carter. As the two girls, lately school-mates, had not met for three months, and had just risen from an excellent dinner,—that notable promoter of the affections,—I deem it superfluous to state that they were holding each other’s hands. Also, they were talking. “Oh, Lucy!” exclaimed Alice, suddenly starting up, “I had forgotten to tell you. I have fallen in love,—that is, _nearly_. I must tell you about it,” continued she, talking, at the same time, with her lips, her hands, and her merry-glancing hazel eyes,—“it was so romantic!” “Of course,” said I. “Ah, don’t be jealous!” retorted she, coaxingly. “But you see, Lucy, one day last week, as I was crossing the street, two squares below here, I struck my foot against something and fell flat. A book that I carried tumbled one way, my veil flew another, and—” “And some pale, poetic stranger helped you to rise,” interrupted I. “Yes; a gentleman who was meeting me just as I fell, and whose face I am sure I had never before seen in Richmond, ran forward, lifted me up, got me my book and veil, and, in short, he was so graceful, and his voice was so gentle, when he said ‘Excuse me,’ as he lifted me from the ground, that—I confess—I—” And dropping her eyes, and with an inimitable simper on her countenance, she made as though straightening, between thumb and forefinger, the hem of her handkerchief.