ing changes in a single composition. Eleanore's
heart was heavy: she came very nearly asking, "For whom, Daniel? For
what? The trunk up in the attic?"

She slowly began to perceive that it is not brooding reason that climbs
and conquers the steps of perfection, but moral will. Like a flash of
lightning she recognised one day the demoniacal element in this impulse,
an impulse she had been accustomed to ascribe to his everlasting
fidgeting, fumbling, and grumbling. She shuddered at the hitherto
unsuspected distress of the man, and took pity on him: he was burying
himself in darkness in order to give the world more light.

The world? What did it know about the creations of her Daniel! The big
trunk was full of _opus_ upon _opus_, and not a soul troubled itself
about all these musical treasures resting in a single coffin.

There was something wrong here, she thought. There must be a lost or
broken wheel in the clock-work of time; there was some disease among
men; some poison, some evil, some heinous oversight.

She could think of nothing else. One day she decided to visit old
Herold. At first he acted as though he would chew her to pieces, but
afterwards he became more civil, at least civil enough to listen to her.
Her features were remarkably brilliant and agile as she spoke. He
expressed himself as follows later on: "If some one had promised me
eternal blessedness on condition that I forget the picture of this
pregnant woman, as she stood before me and argued the case of Daniel
Nothafft _vs._ The Public, I would have been obliged to forego the
offer, for I could never have fulfilled my part of the agreement. Forget
her? Who would demand the impossible?"

Old Herold begged her to send him one of Daniel's latest compositions,
if she could. She said she would, and the next morning she took from the
trunk the quartette in B minor for strings, and carried it over to the
professor. He laid the score before him, and began to read. Eleanore
took a seat, and patiently studied the many little painted pictures that
hung on the wall.

The hour was up. The white-haired man turned the last leaf and struck
his clenched fist on the paper, while around his leonine mouth there was
a play partly of wrath and partly of awe. He said: "The case will be
placed on the calendar, you worthiest of all Eleanores, but I am no
longer the herald."

He walked back and forth, wrung his hands, and cried: "What structure!
What colourful tones! What