tly acquainted
with his name--at least his or her name, you know--and then never
speaking! Some one comes along, and says, 'Miss Le Baron, this is Mr.
Culross,' just as if one didn't know that all the time! And there you
are! You cease to be dumb folks, and fall to talking, and say a lot of
things neither of you care about, and after five or six weeks of time
and sundry meetings, get down to honestly saying what you mean. I'm so
glad we've got through with that first stage, and can say what we think
and tell what we really like."

Then the playing began again,--a harplike intermingling of soft sounds.
Zoe Le Baron's hands were very girlish. Everything about her was
unformed. Even her mind was so. But all promised a full completion.
The voice, the shoulders, the smile, the words, the lips, the arms, the
whole mind and body, were rounding to maturity.

"Why do you never come to church in the morning?" asks Miss Le Baron,
wheeling around on her piano-stool suddenly. "You are only there at
night, with your mother."

"I go only on her account," replies David, truthfully. "In the morning
I am so tired with the week's work that I rest at home. I ought to go, I
know."

"Yes, you ought," returns the young woman, gravely. "It doesn't really
rest one to lie in bed like that. I've tried it at boarding-school. It
was no good whatever."

"Should you advise me," asks David, in a confiding tone, "to arise early
on Sunday?"

The girl blushes a little. "By all means!" she cries, her eyes
twinkling, "and--and come to church. Our morning sermons are really very
much better than those in the evening." And she plays a waltz, and what
with the music and the warmth of the room and the perfume of the roses,
a something nameless and mystical steals over the poor clerk, and
swathes him about like the fumes of opium. They are alone. The silence
is made deeper by that rhythmic unswelling of sound. As the painter
flushes the bare wall into splendor, these emotions illuminated his
soul, and gave to it that high courage that comes when men or women
suddenly realize that each life has its significance,-their own lives no
less than the lives of others.

The man sitting there in the shadow in that noisy train saw in his
vision how the lad arose and moved, like one under a spell, toward the
piano. He felt again the enchantment of the music-ridden quiet, of the
perfume, and the presence of the woman.

"Knowing you and speaking with you have not