g anybody--if
he sees the beaten man's face? The only way we can enjoy getting ahead
of other people nowadays is by forgetting what the other people feel.
And that," he added, "is nothing of what the music meant to me. You see,
if I keep talking about what it didn't mean I can keep from telling you
what it did mean."

"Didn't it mean courage to you, too--a little?" she asked. "Triumph and
praise were in it, and somehow those things mean courage to me."

"Yes, they were all there," Bibbs said. "I don't know the name of what
he played, but I shouldn't think it would matter much. The man that
makes the music must leave it to you what it can mean to you, and the
name he puts to it can't make much difference--except to himself and
people very much like him, I suppose."

"I suppose that's true, though I'd never thought of it like that."

"I imagine music must make feelings and paint pictures in the minds of
the people who hear it," Bibbs went on, musingly, "according to their
own natures as much as according to the music itself. The musician might
compose something and play it, wanting you to think of the Holy Grail,
and some people who heard it would think of a prayer-meeting, and some
would think of how good they were themselves, and a boy might think of
himself at the head of a solemn procession, carrying a banner and riding
a white horse. And then, if there were some jubilant passages in the
music, he'd think of a circus."

They had reached her gate, and she set her hand upon it, but did
not open it. Bibbs felt that this was almost the kindest of her
kindnesses--not to be prompt in leaving him.

"After all," she said, "you didn't tell me whether you liked it."

"No. I didn't need to."

"No, that's true, and I didn't need to ask. I knew. But you said you
were trying to keep from telling me what it did mean."

"I can't keep from telling it any longer," he said. "The music meant to
me--it meant the kindness of--of you."

"Kindness? How?"

"You thought I was a sort of lonely tramp--and sick--"

"No," she said, decidedly. "I thought perhaps you'd like to hear Dr.
Kraft play. And you did."

"It's curious; sometimes it seemed to me that it was you who were
playing."

Mary laughed. "I? I strum! Piano. A little Chopin--Grieg--Chaminade. You
wouldn't listen!"

Bibbs drew a deep breath. "I'm frightened again," he said, in an
unsteady voice. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm pushing, but--" He paused,
and the words san