ith her, and her father. He
was, however, just leaving them, and did not see me.

I knew that her father had known him in Vienna, when the now great
violinist was a mere lad, and I had heard that he forgot no one, so
the sight gave me a merely momentary surprise.

As I joined her, and we stepped out into the night together, I could
not help wondering if Rodriguez had noticed her sensitive violin face,
as I tried to get a look into her eyes. I remembered afterward that,
so wrapped was I in my own emotions, and so sure was I of her
sympathy, that I neither noted nor asked how the music had affected
her.

It was bitterly cold. We walked briskly, and parted at the door.

As I look back, I realize how much an egoist an emotional man can be,
and in good faith be unconscious of it.

The day after the concert was Saturday--a day on which I rarely saw
her, as it was my habit to spend all Sunday with her. I was always
somewhat an epicure in my moral nature. I liked to pet my
inclinations, as I have seen good livers whet their appetites, by
self-denial.

All day I was restless and depressed.

At the piano, with my violin in my hand, it was still that same
haunting melody that bewitched my fingers. Whatever I essayed led me,
unconsciously, back to the same theme; and whenever that _motif_ fell
from my fingers her face appeared before my eyes so distinctly that I
would have to dash my hand across them to wipe away the impression
that it was the real face that was before me. Afterward, when I was
calmer, I knew that this was nothing singular since, whether I had
ever reflected on the fact or not, she was rarely from my mind.

As I played that melody over and over again, it puzzled me more and
more. I could find nowhere within my memory anything that even
reminded me of it. Yet I was vaguely familiar with it.

When evening came on I was more restless than ever. By nine o'clock I
found it impossible to bear longer with my own company, and I started
out. I had no destination. Something impelled me toward the Opera
House, though I cared little for opera as a rule, that is, opera as we
have it in America--fashionable and Philistine.

I entered the auditorium--the opera was "Faust"--just in season to
hear the last half of the third act.

As the sensuous passionate music swelled in the sultry air of the dark
garden at Nuremburg, I listened, moved by it as I always am--when I
cannot see the over-dressed, lady-like Marguerite th