lip. He may guess that the painter sits at his easel with
kindling eye; but he cannot guess that just as the elder lady is about
to say,--

"My dear, if you don't feel"--the tremor vanishes, the lips gently
set, and only the color remains. But he hears the first soft moan of
the tense string under the bow, and a second, and another; and then,
as he rests his elbows upon the table before him, and covers his face
in his trembling hands, it seems to him as if his own lost heart had
entered into that vibrant medium, and is pouring thence to heaven and
her ear its prayer of love.

Paint, artist, paint! Let your brushes fly! None can promise you she
shall ever look quite like this again. Catch the lines,--the waving
masses and dark coils of that loose-bound hair; the poise of head and
neck; the eloquent sway of the form; the folds of garments that no
longer hide, but are illumined by, the plenitude of an inner life and
grace; the elastic feet; the ethereal energy and discipline of arms
and shoulders; the supple wrists; the very fingers quivering on the
strings; the rapt face, and the love-inspired eyes.

Claude, Claude! when every bird in forest and field knows the call of
its mate, can you not guess the meaning of those strings? Must she
open those sealed lips and call your very name--she who would rather
die than call it?

He does not understand. Yet, without understanding, he answers. He
rises from his seat; he moves to the window; he will not tiptoe or
peep; he will be bold and bad. Brazenly he lifts the curtain and looks
down; and one, one only--not the artist and not the patroness of art,
but that one who would not lift her eyes to that window for all the
world's wealth--knows he is standing there, listening and looking
down. He counts himself all unseen, yet presently shame drops the
curtain. He turns away, yet stands hearkening. The music is about to
end. The last note trembles on the air. There is silence. Then someone
moves from a chair, and then the single cry of admiration and delight
from the player's companion is the player's name,--

"Marguerite Beausoleil!"

Hours afterward there sat Claude in the seat where he had sunk down
when he heard that name. The artist's visitors had made a long stay,
but at length they were gone. And now Claude, too, rose to go out. His
steps were heard below, and presently the painter's voice called
persuadingly up:--

"St. Pierre! St. Pierre! Come, see."

They stood side