could have conducted the Choral Symphony as he did that
night. Can any one enter into the broad, eternal clang of the great
"world-story" unless he has a private story of his own which may serve
him in some measure as a key to its mystery? I think not. It was a night
of triumph for Max von Francius. Not only was the glorious music cheered
and applauded, he was called to receive a meed of thanks for having once
more given to the world a never-dying joy and beauty.

I was in the chorus. Down below I saw Adelaide and her devoted
attendant, Harry Arkwright. She looked whiter and more subdued than
ever. All the splendor of the praise of "joy" could not bring joy to her
heart--

"Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt"

brought no warmth to her cheek, nor lessened the load on her breast.

The concert over, we returned home. Adelaide and I retired to her
dressing-room, and her maid brought us tea. She seated herself in
silence. For my part, I was excited and hot, and felt my cheeks glowing.
I was so stirred that I could not sit still, but moved to and fro,
wishing that all the world could hear that music, and repeating lines
from the "Ode to Joy," the grand march-like measure, feeling my heart
uplifted with the exaltation of its opening strain:

"Freude, schoener Gotterfunken!
Tochter aus Elysium!"

As I paced about thus excitedly, Adelaide's maid came in with a note.
Mr. Arkwright had received it from Herr von Francius, who had desired
him to give it to Lady Le Marchant.

Adelaide opened it and I went on with my chant. I know now how dreadful
it must have sounded to her.

"Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Bruesten der Natur--"

"May!" said Adelaide, faintly.

I turned in my walk and looked at her. White as death, she held the
paper toward me with a steady hand, and I, the song of joy slain upon my
lips, took it. It was a brief note from von Francius.

"I let you know, my lady, first of all that I have accepted the post of
Musik-Direktor in ----. It will be made known to-morrow."

I held the paper and looked at her. Now I knew the reason of her pallid
looks. I had indeed been blind. I might have guessed better.

"Have you read it?" she asked, and she stretched her arms above her
head, as if panting for breath.

"Adelaide!" I whispered, going up to her; "Adelaide--oh!"

She fell upon my neck. She did not speak, and I, speechless, held her to
my breast.

"You love him, Adelaide?" I said, at las