y at me. "Take a
few words of advice and information from one who has never felt anything
for you since he first met you but the truest friendship. You have in
you the materials of a great artist; whether you have the Spartan
courage and perseverance requisite to attain the position, I can hardly
tell. If you choose to become an artist, _eine vollkommene Kuenstlerin_,
you must give everything else up--love and marriage and all that
interferes with your art, for, _liebes Fraeulein_, you can not pursue two
things at once."

"Then I have every chance of becoming as great an artist as possible,"
said I; "for none of those things will ever interfere with my pursuit of
art."

"Wait till the time of probation comes; you are but eighteen yet," said
he, kindly, but skeptically.

"Herr von Francius"--the words started to my lips as the truth into
my mind, and fell from them in the strong desire to speak to some one
of the matter that then filled my whole soul--"I can tell you the
truth--you will understand--the time of probation has been--it is
over--past. I am free for the future."

"So!" said he, in a very low voice, and his eyes were filled, less with
pity than with a fellow-feeling which made them "wondrous kind." "You
too have suffered, and given up. There are then four people--you and I,
and one whose name I will not speak, and--may I guess once, Fraeulein
May?"

I bowed.

"My first violinist, _nicht wahr?_"

Again I assented silently. He went on:

"Fate is perverse about these things. And now, my fair pupil, you
understand somewhat more that no true artist is possible without sorrow
and suffering and renunciation. And you will think sometimes of your
old, fault-finding, grumbling master--_ja_?"

"Oh, Herr von Francius!" cried I, laying my hand upon the key-board of
the piano, and sobbing aloud. "The kindest, best, most patient,
gentle--"

I could say no more.

"That is mere nonsense, my dear May," he said, passing his hand over my
prostrate head; and I felt that it--the strong hand--trembled. "I want a
promise from you. Will you sing for me next season?"

"If I am alive, and you send for me, I will."

"Thanks. And--one other word. Some one very dear to us both is very sad;
she will become sadder. You, my child, have the power of allaying
sadness, and soothing grief and bitterness in a remarkable degree. Will
you expend some of that power upon her when her burden grows very hard,
and think that with each