eply
than others. But enough of suffering comes to all of us, even the most
fortunate, without the sordid, gratuitous misery engendered by poverty."

"I agree with Mendelssohn," said Schumann. "To say that poverty is the
proper stimulus of genius is to talk pernicious nonsense. Poverty slays,
it does not nourish; poverty narrows the vision, it does not ennoble;
poverty lowers the moral standard and makes a man sordid. You can't get
good art out of that."

[Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price._ THE MAYBELLS AND THE FLOWERS.
"Now I no more can stay at home.
The Maybells call me so.
The flowers to the dance all roam,
Then, why should I not go?"]

"Perhaps I have been more fortunate than most artists," said
Mendelssohn softly. "When I think of all that my dear father and mother
did for us, I can scarcely restrain tears of gratitude. Almost more
valuable than their careful encouragement was their noble, serious
common-sense. My mother, whom Heaven long preserve to me, was not the
woman to let me, or any of us, live in a fool's paradise, and my dear
dead father was too good a man of business to set me walking in a blind
alley. Ah!" he continued, with glistening eyes, "the great musical times
we had in the dear old Berlin house!"

"Yes," said David; "Your house was on the Leipzig Road. You see, even
then, the finger of fate pointed the way to this place."

"Indeed," said Schumann, with a sigh, "You certainly had extraordinary
opportunities. Not that I've been badly used, though."

"Your father was genuinely proud of you," said David. "I remember his
epigram: 'Once I was the son of my father; now I am the father of my
son.'"

Mendelssohn nodded with a smile, and, turning to me, said in
explanation, "You must know that my father's father was a famous
philosopher."

"Well!" said Schumann, rising, "I must be going."

Bennett and David also prepared to leave, and I rose with them.

"Wait a moment," said Mendelssohn; and going to the door he called
softly, "Cecile, are you there?"

He went out for a moment, and returned with a beautiful and charming
girl, who greeted the three visitors warmly.

Mendelssohn then presented me, saying, gently and almost proudly, "This
is my wife."

I bowed deeply.

"You are from England?" said the lady, with the sweetest of smiles; "I
declare I am quite jealous of your country, my husband loves it so
much."

"We are very proud of his affection," I replied.