orgive."

As I sat, amazed and a little awed at this almost literal fulfillment of
my dream, the others returned.

Karl contributed the tones of his mellowest of instruments, which he
played with a certain pleasant breadth and brightness of coloring, and
my dream came ever truer and truer. The symphony was as spring-like
as possible. We tried it nearly all through; the hymn-like and yet
fairy-like first movement; the second, that song of universal love,
joy, and thanksgiving, with Beethoven's masculine hand evident
throughout. To the notes there seemed to fall a sunshine into the room,
and we could see the fields casting their covering of snow, and withered
trees bursting into bloom; brooks swollen with warm rain, birds busy at
nest-making; clumps of primroses on velvet leaves, and the subtle scent
of violets; youths and maidens with love in their eyes; and even a hint
of later warmth, when hedges should be white with hawthorn, and the
woodland slopes look, with their sheets of hyacinths, as if some of
heaven's blue had been spilled upon earth's grass.

As the last strong, melodious modulations ceased, Courvoisier pointed to
one of the windows.

"Friedhelm, you wretched unbeliever, behold the refutation of your
theories. The symphony has brought the sun out."

"For the first time," said Friedhelm, as he turned his earnest young
face with its fringe of loose brown hair toward the sneaking sun-ray,
which was certainly looking shyly in. "As a rule the very heavens weep
at the performance. Don't you remember the last time we tried it, it
began to rain instantly?"

"Miss Wedderburn's co-operation must have secured its success then on
this occasion," said Eugen, gravely, glancing at me for a moment.

"Hear! hear!" murmured Karl, screwing up his violoncello and smiling
furtively.

"Oh, I am afraid I hindered rather than helped," said I, "but it is very
beautiful."

"But not like spring, is it?" asked Friedhelm.

"Well, I think it is."

"There! I knew she would declare for me," said Courvoisier, calmly, at
which Karl Linders looked up in some astonishment.

"Shall we try this 'Traumerei,' Miss Wedderburn, if you are not too
tired?"

I turned willingly to the piano, and we played Schumann's little
"Dreams."

"Ah," said Eugen, with a deep sigh (and his face had grown sad), "isn't
that the essence of sweetness and poetry? Here's another which is
lovely. 'Noch ein Paar,' _nicht wahr?_"

"And it will be 'noch ei