day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their
ambitions. She assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in
her possession.

He was born into the world, nurtured in infancy, trained in childhood
and matured into manhood, for one express purpose--to be hers alone.
Her ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he
was happy through it all.

One day she said: "Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession
always?"

"Necessarily, it is my livelihood," he replied.

"But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should
be separated?"

"We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his
palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes.

"But I notice that women cluster around you after your concerts--and
shake your hand longer than they should--and talk to you longer than
they should--and go away looking self-satisfied!" she replied brokenly,
much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll.

"Nonsense," he said, smiling, "that is all part of my profession; it is
not me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If,
in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!"
and he kissed away the unwelcome tears.

"I know," she continued, "but lately, since we have loved each other, I
can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an
indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, 'he is not to be
yours, he is to be mine.'"

Diotti flushed and drew her to him "Darling," his voice carrying
conviction, "I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and
beyond!" And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured
petulantly, "I wish there were no other women in the world."

Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day's steamer.
Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he served
as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent
in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his
return to tell him of her love.

When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter
met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the
drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the
piano. "Who's the handsome young fellow?" he asked, looking at the
portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type
of his own sex.

"That is Angelo