"Anyhow, I caught a look on your face that cured me of that conceit. I have never touched the creature since,--a Cremona too!" "I am very sorry, indeed I am. I don't remember--Do you think you could have played a false note?" "Nothing more likely." "Then, I dare say I made an ugly face. One can't always help it, you know, when something unexpected happens. Do forgive me." "Forgive _you_, you angel!" cried Roger, but instantly checked himself, afraid of reaching his mark before he had gathered sufficient momentum to pierce it. "I thought you would see what a good thing it was for me. I wanted to thank you for it." "It's such a pity you didn't go on, though. Progress is the real cure for an overestimate of ourselves." "The fact is, I was beginning to see what small praise there is in doing many things ill and nothing well. I wish you would take my Cremona. I could teach you the A B C of it well enough. How you would make it talk! That _would_ be something to live for, to hear _you_ play the violin! Ladies do, nowadays, you know." "I have no time, Mr. Roger. I should have been delighted to be your pupil; but I am sorry to say it is out of the question." "Of course it is. Only I wish--well, never mind, I only wanted to tell you something. I was leading a life then that wasn't worth leading; for where's the good of being just what happens,--one time full of right feeling and impulse, and the next a prey to all wrong judgments and falsehoods? It was you made me see it. I've been trying to get put right for a long time now. I'm afraid of seeming to talk goody, but you will know what I mean. You and your Sunday evenings have waked me up to know what I am, and what I ought to be. I am a little better. I work hard now. I used to work only by fits and starts. Ask Wynnie." "Dear Mr. Roger, I don't need to ask Wynnie about any thing you tell me. I can take your word for it just as well as hers. I am very glad if I have been of any use to you. It is a great honor to me." "But the worst of it is, I couldn't be content without letting you know, and making myself miserable." "I don't understand you, I think. Surely there can be no harm in letting me know what makes me very happy! How it should make you miserable, I can't imagine." "Because I can't stop there. I'm driven to say what will offend you, if it doesn't make you hate me--no, not that; for you don't know how to hate. But you must think me the most conceited and presumptuous fellow you ever knew. I'm not that, though; I'm not that; it's not me; I can't help it; I can't help loving you--dreadfully--and it's such impudence! To think of you and me in one thought! And yet I can't help it. O Miss Clare! don't drive me away from you."