olish dreams. He would sing songs
to Sheila, and reveal to her in that way a passion of which he dared
not otherwise speak. He would compose pieces of music for her, and
dedicate them to her, and spend half his quarterly allowance in having
them printed. He would grow to consider him, Lavender, a heartless
brute, and cherish dark notions of poisoning him, but for the pain it
might cause to her.

"I don't remember whether you smoke, Mosenberg," Lavender said after
dinner.

"Yes--a cigarette sometimes," said the lad; "but if Mrs. Lavender is
going away perhaps she will let me go into the drawing-room with her.
There is that sonata of Muzio Clementi, madame, which I will try to
remember for you if you please."

"All right," said Lavender: "you'll find me in the next room on the
left when you get tired of your music and want a cigar. I think you
used to beat me at chess, didn't you?"

"I do not know. We will try once more to-night."

Then Sheila and he went into the drawing-room by themselves, and while
she took a seat near the brightly-lit fire-place, he opened the piano
at once and sat down. He turned up his cuffs, he took a look at the
pedals, he threw back his head, shaking his long brown hair; and
then, with a crash like thunder, his two hands struck the keys. He had
forgotten all about that sonata: it was a fantasia of his own, based
on the airs in _Der Freischuetz_, that he played; and as he played
Sheila's poor little piano suffered somewhat. Never before had it been
so battered about, and she wished the small chamber were a great hall,
to temper the voluminous noise of this opening passage. But presently
the music softened. The white, lithe fingers ran lightly over the
keys, so that the notes seemed to ripple out like the prattling of a
stream, and then again some stately and majestic air or some joyous
burst of song would break upon this light accompaniment, and lead up
to another roar and rumble of noise. It was a very fine performance,
doubtless, but what Sheila remarked most was the enthusiasm of the
lad. She was to see more of that.

"Now," he said, "that is nothing. It is to get one's fingers
accustomed to the keys you play anything that is loud and rapid. But
if you please, madame, shall I sing you something?"

"Yes, do," said Sheila.

"I will sing for you a little German song which I believe Jenny Lind
used to sing, but I never heard her sing. You know German?"

"Very little indeed."

"This is