is wife's arm softly.

Seated in the moonlight, the VOLSUNG pair began their loving inspection
of each other's beauties, and the music born of murmuring sound passed
into her face, as the old poet said,--and into her body as well. Into
one lovely attitude after another the music swept her, love impelled
her. And the voice gave out all that was best in it. Like the spring,
indeed, it blossomed into memories and prophecies, it recounted and it
foretold, as she sang the story of her friendless life, and of how the
thing which was truly herself, "bright as the day, rose to the surface"
when in the hostile world she for the first time beheld her Friend.
Fervently she rose into the hardier feeling of action and daring, the
pride in hero-strength and hero-blood, until in a splendid burst, tall
and shining like a Victory, she christened him:--

"SIEGMUND--SO NENN ICH DICH!"

Her impatience for the sword swelled with her anticipation of his act,
and throwing her arms above her head, she fairly tore a sword out of the
empty air for him, before NOTHUNG had left the tree. IN HOCHSTER
TRUNKENHEIT, indeed, she burst out with the flaming cry of their
kinship: "If you are SIEGMUND, I am SIEGLINDE!" Laughing, singing,
bounding, exulting,--with their passion and their sword,--the VOLSUNGS
ran out into the spring night.

As the curtain fell, Harsanyi turned to his wife. "At last," he sighed,
"somebody with ENOUGH! Enough voice and talent and beauty, enough
physical power. And such a noble, noble style!"

"I can scarcely believe it, Andor. I can see her now, that clumsy girl,
hunched up over your piano. I can see her shoulders. She always seemed
to labor so with her back. And I shall never forget that night when you
found her voice."

The audience kept up its clamor until, after many reappearances with the
tenor, Kronborg came before the curtain alone. The house met her with a
roar, a greeting that was almost savage in its fierceness. The singer's
eyes, sweeping the house, rested for a moment on Harsanyi, and she waved
her long sleeve toward his box.

"She OUGHT to be pleased that you are here," said Mrs. Harsanyi. "I
wonder if she knows how much she owes to you."

"She owes me nothing," replied her husband quickly. "She paid her way.
She always gave something back, even then."

"I remember you said once that she would do nothing common," said Mrs.
Harsanyi thoughtfully.

"Just so. She might fail, die, get lost in the pack. B