lly worthy of her. If this father interferes,
I shall-- Let me see, what shall I do?"

Von Barwig laughed at his own foolishness in allowing his thoughts to
run on unchecked. Somehow they always led him into a ridiculous
position from which he could never extricate himself.

"I shall tell this father," he went on in a more compromising vein of
thought, "I shall tell him that his daughter's happiness is at stake,
and that he must not allow personal considerations to interfere with
that happiness. Then he will have me flung out of his house. No,
thank you, Barwig, you will not speak; but none the less that is what I
think! Her happiness first, last and all the time. Let me tell you a
secret, Mr. Stanton," said Von Barwig mentally. His thoughts rushed
him along pell-mell now and he followed them, thoroughly enjoying the
mental pictures they brought up. "Let me tell you my secret, Mr.
Stanton! She is my daughter as well as yours. I have adopted her.
She does not know it, nor do you, but I do! She has taken the place of
my own little one and I love her, Mr. Stanton. I love her just as
much, aye, even more than you do, sir, and this love gives me the right
to speak. You shall not interfere with her happiness! Do you hear me,
sir?"

Von Barwig had now lashed himself into a whirlwind of imaginary
indignation and was pacing up and down the music room; his thoughts
completely engrossing him. They were the only realities in life to him
now, these thoughts, and he treasured them as philosophers do the
truths of existence. All at once his eye caught a pile of music that
lay on the table next to Miss Stanton's dolls' cabinet in the corner of
the room opposite the piano. He observed the Beethoven Concerto for
pianoforte which had Helene Stanton's name on it, also the C Minor and
F Minor concertos of Chopin, besides other compositions for pianoforte
of an exceedingly difficult character; all this music was marked with
her name and the date.

"There must be some mistake," he thought, as he read the names. "She
cannot play these difficult compositions, surely! It may be her mother
had played them, but no, they are dated within a year or so of the
present day!"

Everything was explained to him now. He was no longer surprised at the
unaccountable unevenness of her playing. She had deceived him. "Why,
why?" he wondered.

Then it came to him. "Of course! Fool, dolt, idiot! she wanted to
benefit you, so she pr