it, and I saw the same spirit tremble behind the eyes of the fair face above me, as one sees a reflection tremble under the wind rippled water.  The first chord throbbed on the air in response to it.  Then I played what she had unconsciously inspired in me.  It was in her eyes, where never swerving, immortal loyalty shone, that I read the deathless theme.  Out of her nature came the inspiration.  To her belongs the honor.  I know—­no one better, that as I played last night, I shall never play again; just as I realize that what I played last night my own nature could never of itself have created.  It was she who spoke, it was not I. Let him who dares, try to explain that miracle.”

She rose from her chair and moved toward him, and as she moved, she swayed pitifully.

He did not stir.

It was I who caught her as she stumbled, and I held her close in my arms.  After a moment, she relaxed a little, and her head drooped wearily on my shoulder.  He lowered his lids, and I felt that every nerve in his well controlled body quivered with resentment.

He motioned to entreat her to sit down again.  She shook her head, and, when he went on, again, he for the first time addressed himself directly to her.  “It was chance that set you across my path last night—­you and your father.  I recognized him at once.  I knew your mother well.  I can remember the day on which you were born, I was a lad then.  Your mother was one of my idols.  Why, child, I fiddled for you in your cradle.  At the moment I realized who you were, you were so much a part of my music that you only appealed to me through that.  But when I left you, I carried a consciousness of you with me that was more tangible.  I had held your hand in mine.  I feel it there still.

“I went directly to my room, alone.  I sat down immediately to transcribe as much of what I had played as possible while it was fresh in my mind.  As I wrote I was alone with you.  But as the spirit of the music was imprisoned, I knew that you were becoming more and more a material presence to me.  When I slept, it was to dream of you again—­but, oh, the difference!

“I should have been grateful to you for the inspiration that you had been to me—­and I was!  But it had served its purpose.  They tell me I never played like that before.  I feel I never shall again.  But the end of an emotion is never in the spirit with me.

“I started out this afternoon to find you, oblivious of the fact that I should have left town.  I had the audacity to tell myself that I should be a cad if I departed without thanking the sweet daughter of your mother for her share in making me great.  I had the presumption to believe in myself.  It seemed natural enough to your good father that ‘a whimsical genius,’ as he called me, should be allowed the caprice of even tardily looking up his boyhood’s acquaintance.  He received me nobly, was proud that you should see I remembered him—­and simply made no secret of it.