tion engraved on a brass plate had become as familiar to me
as the grim row of terraces and the solemn-looking door to which it was
nailed. How many times had I not passed it, as I walked from my house to
my place of business. Passed it on snowy mornings and gray misty
evenings, or in the summer time when birds chirruped and sang and the
sun smiled down upon the earth. I had read it over and over again, as I
was wont to do the names of the streets and squares, especially on my
homeward walk. L---- Street--a turn to the right, the inscription on the
door, B---- square--and I was already half-way home to my cheerful
fireside, to my books and my violin; where Shakespeare, Milton and
Beethoven would be ready at my whispered call to help me while away the
hours of the evening.

BUT once as I passed this certain row of terraces, something, hitherto
unknown, seemed to take possession of me. I began to see the sign in a
new light and wondered why I had taken it for granted all these
years,--and never once thought that indeed Nancy Turner must be a real
person. It was true that I had never seen anyone enter the house, but
then I passed it at hours when people would not be likely to be taking
dancing lessons. I began to wonder at my being so absent-minded that I
could for years read these five words and never have them leave more
than a slight impression.

AND suddenly I found myself wondering what sort of person this dancing
teacher was. Surely young and talented, perhaps even beautiful. I mused
about her half the way home. I even wove some strange and fanciful day
dreams about her--when to my sorrow I remembered I was no longer young!

AND therefore Nancy Turner was also middle-aged. For had not the
inscription bearing her name been on that door ever since I was a young
boy--perhaps long before my time.

FOR days I thought about her and failed in explanations to myself, of my
sudden strange fascination for an unknown name.

THE days flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk with her only
increased.

SO one cold and gloomy evening I took courage and knocked at her door.

TO my surprise the gruff voice of a man bade me enter. I found myself in
a small room, blue with smoke and poorly furnished. An old man was
cooking supper, as he hummed some weird old gypsy tune. He seemed
scarcely to notice me and displayed neither surprise nor dissatisfaction
at my sudden appearance. I murmured some excuse about being in the wrong
hou