ther to ask her to
marry me under false colors or to tell her the whole truth. My sense
of what was exigent made me feel there was no necessity of saying
anything; but my inborn sense of honor rebelled at even indirect
deception in this case. But however much I moralized on the question,
I found it more and more difficult to reach the point of confession.
The dread that I might lose her took possession of me each time I
sought to speak, and rendered it impossible for me to do so. That
moral courage requires more than physical courage is no mere poetic
fancy. I am sure I should have found it easier to take the place of a
gladiator, no matter how fierce the Numidian lion, than to tell that
slender girl that I had Negro blood in my veins. The fact which I had
at times wished to cry out, I now wished to hide forever.

During this time we were drawn together a great deal by the mutual
bond of music. She loved to hear me play Chopin and was herself far
from being a poor performer of his compositions. I think I carried
her every new song that was published which I thought suitable to her
voice, and played the accompaniment for her. Over these songs we were
like two innocent children with new toys. She had never been anything
but innocent; but my innocence was a transformation wrought by my love
for her, love which melted away my cynicism and whitened my sullied
soul and gave me back the wholesome dreams of my boyhood.

My artistic temperament also underwent an awakening. I spent many
hours at my piano, playing over old and new composers. I also wrote
several little pieces in a more or less Chopinesque style, which I
dedicated to her. And so the weeks and months went by. Often words of
love trembled on my lips, but I dared not utter them, because I knew
they would have to be followed by other words which I had not the
courage to frame. There might have been some other woman in my set
whom I could have fallen in love with and asked to marry me without a
word of explanation; but the more I knew this girl, the less could I
find it in my heart to deceive her. And yet, in spite of this specter
that was constantly looming up before me, I could never have believed
that life held such happiness as was contained in those dream days of
love.

One Saturday afternoon, in early June, I was coming up Fifth Avenue,
and at the corner of Twenty-third Street I met her. She had been
shopping. We stopped to chat for a moment, and I suggested th