When he returned to the quiet, dark house on Stuyvesant Square, late that afternoon, he sat down at the big window of his studio, and went over the happenings of the day. He felt wonderfully lighthearted, wonderfully elated, as though he had drunken of some subtle stimulant. What a pleasant, interesting city New York was, after all! How thoroughly one could enjoy one's self in it! The noises of it, mingling in a confused, continuous rumble, and falling upon his ears, sounded like the voice of a good old friend. It was an old friend's face that greeted him, as he looked out upon the bare trees in the park. Every now and then he drew a deep, tremulous, audible breath. The colors faded from the sky. Dusk gathered. The bell of St. George's Church rang to vespers. The street lamps were lighted. It got dark. Elias did not stir. “Oh, what a sweet, natural, beautiful girl!” he was soliloquizing. “And what a rough old bear of a father! And what--what a heavenly time we'll have on Friday!” He marveled at himself, it gave him such a swift, exultant thrill to think of Friday; but the obvious psychological explanation of it, he never once suspected. IV. TOWARD the close of Friday's sitting Elias said: “You know, Berlioz has taken great liberties with Goethe's text--quite altered the story, indeed, and given it an ending to suit himself.” “That won't matter much to me,” responded Christine, “because I've never read 'Faust,' and I have only the vaguest notion of what the story is.” “Did it suffer a like fate to 'Wilhelm Meister's?'” “No; but I can't read German, and I didn't know whether there was any good translation. Is there?” “Oh, yes; 'Bayard Taylor's is beautiful. You ought to read it.” “Then, besides, I had an idea that it was very deep and obscure--very hard to understand. Do you think I could understand it?” “I'm sure you could--all that's essential. You could get the story and the human nature. I believe you'd find it even more moving than 'Adam Bede.'” “Can't you tell me the story? Won't you tell it to me now?” “Oh, I should only spoil it.” But Christine begged him to give her the outline of it, pleading that she would enjoy the music so much more intelligently if she were not altogether ignorant of the plot. So, during their luncheon, Elias related as best he could something of the love-story of Faust and Margaret. Christine listened with bated breath, and wide eyes fastened upon his face; and at its conclusion she drew a profound sigh, and murmured: “Oh, how sad, how sad!” “Now,” said Elias, “I must explain how Berlioz has tampered with it.” Which he proceeded to do.