m happy, and herself happy, and going to play very
finely some day.

The voice of Monsieur Harmost, softly gruff, as if he knew what she was
feeling, increased her emotion; her breast heaved under the humming-bird
blouse, water came into her eyes, and more than ever her lips quivered.
He was saying:

"Come, come! The only thing we cannot cure is age. You were right to
come, my child. Music is your proper air. If things are not all what
they ought to be, you shall soon forget. In music--in music, we can get
away. After all, my little friend, they cannot take our dreams from
us--not even a wife, not even a husband can do that. Come, we shall have
good times yet!"

And Gyp, with a violent effort, threw off that sudden weakness. From
those who serve art devotedly there radiates a kind of glamour. She left
Monsieur Harmost that afternoon, infected by his passion for music.
Poetic justice--on which all homeopathy is founded--was at work to try
and cure her life by a dose of what had spoiled it. To music, she now
gave all the hours she could spare. She went to him twice a week,
determining to get on, but uneasy at the expense, for monetary conditions
were ever more embarrassed. At home, she practised steadily and worked
hard at composition. She finished several songs and studies during the
spring and summer, and left still more unfinished. Monsieur Harmost was
tolerant of these efforts, seeming to know that harsh criticism or
disapproval would cut her impulse down, as frost cuts the life of
flowers. Besides, there was always something fresh and individual in her
things. He asked her one day:

"What does your husband think of these?"

Gyp was silent a moment.

"I don't show them to him."

She never had; she instinctively kept back the knowledge that she
composed, dreading his ruthlessness when anything grated on his nerves,
and knowing that a breath of mockery would wither her belief in herself,
frail enough plant already. The only person, besides her master, to whom
she confided her efforts was--strangely enough--Rosek. But he had
surprised her one day copying out some music, and said at once: "I knew.
I was certain you composed. Ah, do play it to me! I am sure you have
talent." The warmth with which he praised that little "caprice" was
surely genuine; and she felt so grateful that she even played him others,
and then a song for him to sing. From that day, he no longer seemed to
her odious; she even