seek
to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes."

They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his
companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for _table
d'hote_. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She closed
the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without touching
the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let them rest
on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to move and make sweet
music; and then they drifted into Schumann's "Abendlied," and then the
little girl played some of his "Kinderscenen," and some of his "Fantasie
Stucke," and some of his songs.

Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the true
musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one by one,
the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious to see the
musician.

The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that
evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling
possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos and
wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those who
listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret,
and which had won for her such honour as comes only to the few. She
understood Schumann's music, and was at her best with him.

Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she
wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an
overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both.

Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so
coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there was something of
that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played
in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia.

At last she arrived at the "Carnaval," and those who heard her declared
afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering.
The tenderness was so restrained; the vigour was so refined. When
the last notes of that spirited "Marche des Davidsbundler contre les
Philistins" had died away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who was
standing near her almost dazed.

"And now my favourite piece of all," she said; and she at once began
the "Second Novelette," the finest of the eight, but seldom played in
public.

What can one say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the pathetic
longi