cannot be
otherwise. Bellows and wheels cannot take the place of human breath and
human hands; they bring tones from a flute and a violin which your
machinery never can. It must be so. Come, let us empty our glasses and
be off."

They finished their wine, and went merrily homeward through the autumn
night, singing all sorts of songs, and, when they were tired of
singing, varying their music by whistling. At Pilgrim's house they
parted. Lenz's way led him past the Lion inn; and, as he saw it was
still lighted, and heard a sound of voices within, he entered.

"I am glad you are come," said Annele, giving him her hand; "I was
thinking you must be as lonely at home, now that your clock is gone, as
you were when your mother died."

"Not quite that, but something like it. Ah! Annele, people may praise
my work as much as they like, I know it is not what it should be. But
one thing I may say of myself without conceit,--I do know how to hear
music, and to hear music aright is something."

Annele stared at him. Know how to hear music! Indeed, what art is there
in that? Any one can hear music who has ears, and does not plug them
up! Still, she fancied that Lenz must have some hidden meaning.
Experience had taught her, that, when a man wants to bring out an idea
of which his mind is full, his first utterances are apt to be rather
disconnected; so she threw another wondering glance at Lenz, and said,
"To be sure, that is something."

"You know what I mean," cried Lenz, delighted.

"Yes, but I cannot express it."

"That is just it; neither can I. When I come to that I am a wretched
bungler. I never regularly learned music; I cannot play the violin or
piano; but when I see the notes, I hear exactly what the composer meant
to say. I cannot interpret music, but I can hear it."

"That is well said," chimed in Annele. "I shall remember that as long
as I live. To interpret music and to hear it are two different things.
You show me so clearly what I have always felt, and yet never could
express."

Lenz drank in the good wine, the kind words, and the kind looks of
Annele, and went on: "Especially with Mozart; I hear him, and I think I
hear him right. If I could but once in my life have shaken hands with
him! If he had lived in my day, it seems to me I should have died of
grief at his death; but, now that he is in heaven, I should like to do
him some service. At other times, I think it is fortunate I cannot play
any instrument, fo