nts. Only his own
elegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and his
triumph over the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.

It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her work
for an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him. She made no
effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She loved
him; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in the
glorious truth? She loved him, not because he was her conquest, but
because she was his.

Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending "act" that he barely
noted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was there
remarkable in a woman being in love with him? "The women are all crazy
about me," was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance at
him. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a look of intense, yearning
melancholy. He sighed deeply. "Let us go apart," he said. Then he
glanced gloomily round and sighed again.

They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the
crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.

"Has it made you worse to come, dear?" Hilda asked anxiously. "Are you
sick?"

"Sick?" he said in a hollow voice. "My soul is sick--dying. My God!
My God!" An impressive pause. "Ah, child, you do not know what
suffering is--you who have lived only in these simple, humble
surroundings."

Hilda was trembling with apprehension. "What is it, Carl? You can
tell me. Let me help you bear it."

"No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from your
young life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But love
makes me a coward."

"But I love you, Carl," she said gently.

"And I have missed you--dreadfully, dreadfully!"

He rolled his eyes wildly. "You torture me!" he exclaimed, seizing
her hand in a dead man's clutch. "How CAN I speak?"

Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and he
could see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.

"What is it?" she murmured. "You know I--can bear anything for you."

"Not that tone," he groaned. "Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh,
scornful--but not those tender accents."

He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. "Forgive
me," she said humbly. "I don't know what to say or do. I--you look so
strange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me, please?"

He noted with artistic satisfaction that