y," said Constance
suddenly. "Oh, Otto, some day you must show me Cracow!"

His face darkened.

"I shall never see Cracow again. I shall never see it with you."

"Why not? Let's dream!"

The smiling tenderness in her eyes angered him. She was treating him
like a child; she was so sure he never could--or never would--make
love to her!

"I shall never go to Cracow," he said, with energy, "not even with you.
I was to have gone--a year from now. It was all arranged. We have
relations there--and I have friends there--musicians. The _chef
d'orchestre_--at the Opera House--he was one of my teachers in Paris.
Before next year, I was to have written a concerto on some of our Polish
songs--there are scores of them that Liszt and Chopin never discovered.
Not only love-songs, mind you!--songs of revolution--battle-songs."

His eyes lit up and he began to hum an air--to Polish words--that even
as given out in his small tenor voice stirred like a trumpet.

"Fine!" said Constance.

"Ah, but you can't judge--you don't know the words. The words are
splendid. It's 'Ujejski's Hymn'--the Galician Hymn of '46." And he fell
to intoning.

"Amid the smoke of our homes that burn,
From the dust where our brothers lie bleeding--
Our cry goes up to Thee, oh God!

"There!--that's something like it."

And he ran on with a breathless translation of the famous dirge for the
Galician rebels of '46, in which a devastated land wails like Rachel for
her children.

Suddenly a sound rose--a sound reedy and clear, like a beautiful voice
in the distance.

"Constance!"

The lad sprang to his feet. Constance laid hold on him.

"Listen, dear Otto--listen a moment!"

She held him fast, and breathing deep, he listened. The very melody he
had just been humming rang out, from the same distant point; now pealing
through the little house in a rich plenitude of sound, now delicate and
plaintive as the chant of nuns in a quiet church, and finally crashing
to a defiant and glorious close.

"What is it?" he Said, very pale, looking at her almost threateningly.
"What have you been doing!"

"It's our gift--our surprise--dear Otto!"

"Where is it? Let me go."

"No!--sit down, and listen! Let me listen with you. I've not heard it
before! Mr. Falloden and I have been preparing it for months. Isn't it
wonderful? Oh, dear Otto!--if you only like it!" He sat down trembling,
and hand in hand they listened.

The "Fantasia" ran on, dealin