y inability to brook opposition can be turned
to good account now." And old Sanders again tapped in the rhythm of a
dirge on his parchment-bound cranium.

"Your plan?" eagerly asked the father, whose confidence in his
secretary was absolute.

"I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger
with Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his
aspirations; bring us together at your house some evening, and if I
can not enter a wedge of discontent, then they are not as others."

* * * * *

Mildred was delighted when her father told her on his return in the
evening that he was anxious to meet Signor Diotti, and suggested a
dinner party within a few days. He said he would invite Mr. Sanders,
as that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to
meet the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to
Diotti, adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle
Sanders, as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts
during the season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music.

X

The little dinner party passed off pleasantly, and as old Sanders
lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart's assurance,
that when he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles
around. "I tell you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a
petticoat," he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti's
ribs. "When I played the Devil's Dream there wasn't a girl in the
country could keep from dancing, and 'Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,'
brought them on their knees to me every time;" then after a pause, "I
don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good
old times," and he actually sighed in remembrance.

Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the
case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of
silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently,
and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to
happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes
followed the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and
the bow bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in
contact with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on
his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought.

As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving
toward t