the piece of paper in the book and
pretending that it was part of his lesson. "Fraeulein Chenny, I cannot
mit you life midout--you liff," and then, feeling that he had somewhat
entangled his words, he repeated: "I cannot life midout--you--Chenny--you
Chenny midout." Jenny looked at him in perplexity. His manner, the
words--all were so strange!

"That isn't in the lesson," she managed to gasp, holding down her head
bashfully.

"I cannot life midout you liff! Luff, Chenny, luff!" he added. He meant
love, for he knew the meaning of that, and he waited for her answer.
Perhaps she did not understand, but if she did, all she seemed able to
say was:

"That isn't in my lesson, Mr. Poons; it isn't in my lesson!"

What Poons said in response to Jenny's statement will never be known, for
at that precise moment in walked Von Barwig, who had just returned from
his weary, useless effort to sell his compositions. His face brightened
up as he saw the young lovers, and a beautiful smile chased away the
lines of sorrow and suffering. There was no mistaking Poon's attitude.
His eyes were full of love, and he held Jenny's hand in his. Although
she indignantly snatched it away as soon as the door opened, probably
thinking it was her aunt, Von Barwig saw the action, and it brought joy
to his poor, bruised old heart.

"Come here, Jenny," he said. She nestled by his side.

"Poons," he said sternly in German, "how long has this been going on?"

"I don't know, Herr Von Barwig," replied Poons, in a low voice.

"Jenny, do you approve of his action?"

"I don't know, professor, I--" Jenny laid her head on his shoulder and
Von Barwig knew that she loved the young man.

"Scoundrel!" began Von Barwig, turning to Poons. He tried to be serious,
but the expression on Poons's face made him smile in spite of himself.
Poons begged him to speak to Jenny for him; he pleaded so hard that Jenny
asked Von Barwig if he was talking about her.

"Ask him if he likes me!" said Jenny innocently.

"I will," replied Von Barwig, and he turned to Poons. "Do you love her?"
he asked.

Poons's reply was a torrent of burning love, a flood of words that let
loose the pent-up emotion of a highly strung musical temperament that for
months had longed for utterance. The way he poured out the German
language surprised both his hearers; it seemed as if he could not
restrain himself. In vain did Von Barwig try to stem the onward rush of
the tidal wave of