nishment of
every one of them now, for a sign that he remembered me. None was given.

"Lohengrin" had no more attraction for me. I felt in pain that was
almost physical, and weak with excitement as at last the curtain fell
and we left our places.

"You were very quiet," said Vincent, as we walked home. "Did you not
enjoy it?"

"Very much, thank you. It was very beautiful," said I, faintly.

"So Herr Courvoisier was not at the _soiree_," said the loud, rough
voice of Anna Sartorius.

"No," was all Vincent said.

"Did you have anything new? Was Herr von Francius there too?"

"Yes; he was there too."

I pondered. Brinks whistled loudly the air of Elsa's "Brautzug," as we
paced across the Lindenallee. We had not many paces to go. The lamps
were lighted, the people were thronging thick as in the daytime. The air
was full of laughter, talk, whistling and humming of the airs from the
opera. My ear strained eagerly through the confusion. I could have
caught the faintest sound of Courvoisier's voice had it been there,
but it was not. And we came home; Vincent opened the door with his
latch-key, said, "It has not been very brilliant, has it? That tenor is
a stick," and we all went to our different rooms. It was in such wise
that I met Eugen Courvoisier for the second time.

CHAPTER XI.

"Will you sing?"

The theater season closed with that evening on which "Lohengrin" was
performed. I ran no risk of meeting Courvoisier face to face again in
that alarming, sudden manner. But the subject had assumed diseased
proportions in my mind. I found myself confronted with him yet, and week
after week. My business in Elberthal was music--to learn as much music
and hear as much music as I could: wherever there was music there was
also Eugen Courvoisier--naturally. There was only one _staedtische
Kapelle_ in Elberthal. Once a week at least--each Saturday--I saw him,
and he saw me at the unfailing instrumental concert to which every one
in the house went, and to absent myself from which would instantly set
every one wondering what could be my motive for it. My usual companions
were Clara Steinmann, Vincent, the Englishman, and often Frau Steinmann
herself. Anna Sartorius and some other girl students of art usually
brought sketch-books, and were far too much occupied in making studies
or caricatures of the audience to pay much attention to the music. The
audience were, however, hardened; they were used to it. Anna and her
f