When the German had commenced he came to her and whispered, “Do you care for it?”

“The German, Ross?  Indeed no:  I am tired too, and was just coming to ask you if I might let old Mr. L——­ take me home:  he says it will be no trouble.”

“And you would not have asked me to take you?” he said, reproachfully.

“Take you away from the German, Ross!  Such an unheard-of thing as that!  You must think me very selfish.  Indeed; I am not where your pleasure is concerned:  I only want you to enjoy yourself.”

“Then, for Charity’s sake, let’s go home,” he said.

“With all my heart if you really wish it!” and she started; then pausing:  “Are you going because you think I want to go?  I do not indeed:  I will stay gladly.”

“I am going because I want to—­because I am dead tired, and long, with a perfect passion, for our cozy room, the dim firelight, and my darling toasting her pretty slippers.”

“You dear, foolish Ross!” and she was gone like the wind.  On their way out, Sheldon Wilber met them in the hall, and, handing her something, said, “To-night, little girl:  if you have ever doubted, doubt no more.  And remember, a trusting heart is a priceless one;” and he was gone.

When they were home and comfortable, Ross said, “My wife, it was cruel to let me learn your wonderful gifts through strangers:  it has hurt me cruelly.”

“Oh, Ross, don’t say so!  Hurt you!  I hurt you, my love, my love!  I had hoped no pang of the lightest sort would ever reach you through me, and now I’ve grieved you sorely!  It’s all due to my morbid fancies, dear.  I could not ask to sing to you lest you should not like my singing:  I think I should have gone mad if you had not liked my voice, Ross I have so hoped it would be pleasant to your ear!  Do you like it, Ross?  Is my voice sweet to you?” and she held his face between her hands and looked eagerly and steadfastly into his eyes.

“The sweetest thing I ever heard.  It thrills my blood yet, that love-song you sang.”

She gave a little cooing laugh:  “That is your love-song, dear—­your very own.”  Then she said, gravely, “I must tell you all about myself now, Ross, so you shall never be able to reproach me with having given you pain.  No matter, dear:  it was, true,” she said in answer to his caressing protest, “and I feel the hurt through you.  I am your wife.  The reason those gentlemen are so fond of me is because—­Wait;” and she slid from his embrace and brought a pile of books:  “this and this are mine; these two I translated from the German, others from the old Provencal tongue, with which my father made me familiar.”  Then she told him how lovingly she did this work, how kind scholarly men had been to her, and how eagerly they had sought to know her otherwise than by letter—­“Until, to-night, I bade them find Ross Norval’s wife, and know the little girl who, shielded by his name, feared nothing any more.”