for me."

"But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?"
I pleaded.

"Quite as much," he said, with emphasis. I forgot my tears; for some way
my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary
incumbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing
harmonies of Beethoven's majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away
in their still depths again.

CHAPTER XIII.

ALONE WITH HIS DEAD.

At breakfast Mr. Winthrop was more insistent in his curiosity about the
concert of the previous evening. Mrs. Flaxman assured him that we were
all agreeably disappointed in our evening's entertainment.

"Mr. Bovyer was especially charmed with Medoline's appreciation of his
favorite composer. He asked permission to call on her to-day."

He gave me a keen glance, saying: "I hope you did not grow too
enthusiastic. One need not hang out a placard to prove we can comprehend
the intricate and profound."

Mrs. Flaxman answered hastily for me.

"No, indeed; she was too quiet; and only Mr. Bovyer and myself detected
the tears dropping behind her fan. But Mr. Bovyer seemed gratified at the
meaning he read from them."

My face was burning; but after a few seconds' silence I stole a glance
at Mr. Winthrop. He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and
Beethoven's Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening,
when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three
hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests. As usual, I sat a silent
listener, comprehending readily a good many things that were said; but
some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth. I found Mr.
Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his
phlegmatic appearance, surprised me. He seemed thoroughly acquainted
with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop
listened to his remarks with deference. Before the evening closed Mr.
Winthrop asked him for some music. He complied so readily that I fell to
contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a
rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends' desire for music,
and their own vanity at the same time. I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling
back into his favorite position in his arm-chair--his head thrown back
and eyes closed. Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding
her eyes from the light. I discovered afterward it was merely a pre