Once when I had been doggedly beating
out some easy passages from an old score of _Euryanthe_ I had found
among her music books, she came up to me and, putting her hands over my
eyes, gently drew my head back upon her shoulder, saying tremulously,
"Don't love it so well, Clark, or it may be taken from you. Oh, dear
boy, pray that whatever your sacrifice may be, it be not that."

When my aunt appeared on the morning after her arrival she was still in
a semi-somnambulant state. She seemed not to realize that she was in the
city where she had spent her youth, the place longed for hungrily half
a lifetime. She had been so wretchedly train-sick throughout the journey
that she had no recollection of anything but her discomfort, and, to all
intents and purposes, there were but a few hours of nightmare between
the farm in Red Willow County and my study on Newbury Street. I had
planned a little pleasure for her that afternoon, to repay her for some
of the glorious moments she had given me when we used to milk together
in the straw-thatched cowshed and she, because I was more than usually
tired, or because her husband had spoken sharply to me, would tell me
of the splendid performance of the _Huguenots_ she had seen in Paris,
in her youth. At two o'clock the Symphony Orchestra was to give a Wagner
program, and I intended to take my aunt; though, as I conversed with her
I grew doubtful about her enjoyment of it. Indeed, for her own sake,
I could only wish her taste for such things quite dead, and the
long struggle mercifully ended at last. I suggested our visiting the
Conservatory and the Common before lunch, but she seemed altogether too
timid to wish to venture out. She questioned me absently about various
changes in the city, but she was chiefly concerned that she had
forgotten to leave instructions about feeding half-skimmed milk to
a certain weakling calf, "old Maggie's calf, you know, Clark," she
explained, evidently having forgotten how long I had been away. She was
further troubled because she had neglected to tell her daughter about
the freshly opened kit of mackerel in the cellar, which would spoil if
it were not used directly.

I asked her whether she had ever heard any of the Wagnerian operas and
found that she had not, though she was perfectly familiar with their
respective situations, and had once possessed the piano score of _The
Flying Dutchman_. I began to think it would have been best to get her
back to Red Wil