doubt; for he was not used to being baffled by feminine riddles. He determined to pluck out the heart of the mystery. One evening, at Mrs. Keith’s urgent request, Nora had prepared to go to the opera, as the season was to be very brief. Mrs. Keith was to dine with some friends and go thither in their company; one of the ladies was to call for Nora after dinner, and they were to join the party at the theatre. In the afternoon there came to Mrs. Keith’s a young German lady, a pianist of merit who had her way to make, a niece of Nora’s regular professor, with whom Nora had an engagement to practise duets twice a week. It so happened that, owing to a violent rain, Miss Lilienthal had been unable to depart after their playing; whereupon Nora had kept her to dinner, and the two, over their sweetbread, had sworn an eternal friendship. After dinner Nora went up to dress for the opera, and, on descending, found Hubert sitting by the fire deep in German discourse with the musical stranger. “I was afraid you would be going,” said Hubert: “I saw _Der Freyschütz_ on the placards. Well, lots of pleasure! Let me stay here awhile and polish up my German with Mademoiselle. It is great fun. And when the rain is over, Fraülein, perhaps you’ll not mind my walking home with you.” But Mademoiselle was gazing in mute envy at Nora, standing before her in festal array. “She can take the carriage,” said Nora, “when we have used it.” And then reading the burden of that wistful regard—“Have you never heard _Der Freyschütz_?” “Often!” said the other, with a poignant smile. Nora reflected a moment, then drew off her gloves. “You shall go, you shall take my place. I will stay at home. Your dress will do; you shall wear my shawl. Let me put this flower into your hair, and here are my gloves and my fan. So! You are charming. My gloves are large,—never mind. The others will be delighted to have you; come to-morrow and tell me all about it.” Nora’s friend, in her carriage, was already at the door. The gentle Fraülein, half shrinking, half eager, suffered herself to be hurried down to the carriage. On the doorstep she turned and kissed her hostess with a fervent “_Da allerliebste!_” Hubert wondered whether Nora’s purpose had been to please her friend or to please herself. Was it that she preferred his society to Weber’s music? He knew that she had a passion for Weber. “You have lost the opera,” he said, when she reappeared: “but let us have an opera of our own. Play something; play Weber.” So she played Weber for more than an hour; and I doubt whether, among the singers who filled the theatre with their melody, the master found that evening a truer interpreter than the young girl playing in the lamp-lit parlor to the man she loved. She played herself tired. “You ought to be extremely grateful,” she said, as she struck the last chord: “I have never played so well.”