is working-class rag-time and jingles to her classical
display pieces that she knew nearly by heart. Yet he betrayed a
democratic fondness for Wagner, and the "Tannhauser" overture, when she
had given him the clew to it, claimed him as nothing else she played. In
an immediate way it personified his life. All his past was the Venusburg
motif, while her he identified somehow with the Pilgrim's Chorus motif;
and from the exalted state this elevated him to, he swept onward and
upward into that vast shadow-realm of spirit-groping, where good and evil
war eternally.

Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubts as to
the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions of music. But her
singing he did not question. It was too wholly her, and he sat always
amazed at the divine melody of her pure soprano voice. And he could not
help but contrast it with the weak pipings and shrill quaverings of
factory girls, ill-nourished and untrained, and with the raucous
shriekings from gin-cracked throats of the women of the seaport towns.
She enjoyed singing and playing to him. In truth, it was the first time
she had ever had a human soul to play with, and the plastic clay of him
was a delight to mould; for she thought she was moulding it, and her
intentions were good. Besides, it was pleasant to be with him. He did
not repel her. That first repulsion had been really a fear of her
undiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep. Though she did not
know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right. Also, he had a
tonic effect upon her. She was studying hard at the university, and it
seemed to strengthen her to emerge from the dusty books and have the
fresh sea-breeze of his personality blow upon her. Strength! Strength
was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure. To come
into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take
heart of life. And when he had gone, she would return to her books with
a keener zest and fresh store of energy.

She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it was an
awkward thing to play with souls. As her interest in Martin increased,
the remodelling of his life became a passion with her.

"There is Mr. Butler," she said one afternoon, when grammar and
arithmetic and poetry had been put aside.

"He had comparatively no advantages at first. His father had been a bank
cashier, but he lingered for years, dying of consum