ring, share the pain of its self-destruction.

The composer paused. For a while no one could speak. Finally, the
Countess, with voice still unsteady, said "Will you give us some idea of
your own feelings when you laid down the pen that night?"

He looked up at her as if waked from a dream, hesitated a moment, and
then said, half to the Countess, half to his wife: "Yes, my head swam at
last. I had written this dialogue and the chorus of demons, in fever
heat, by the open window, and, after resting a moment, I rose to go to
your room, that I might talk a little and cool off. But another thought
stopped me half way to the door." His glance fell, and his voice
betrayed his emotion. "I said to myself, 'If you should die tonight and
leave your score just here, could you rest in your grave?' My eye fell
on the wick of the light in my hand and on the mountain of melted wax.
The thought that it suggested was painful. 'Then,' I went on, 'if after
this, sooner or later, some one else were to complete the opera, perhaps
even an Italian, and found all the numbers but one, up to the
seventeenth--so many sound, ripe fruits, lying ready to his hand in the
long grass-if he dreaded the finale, and found, unhoped for, the rocks
for its construction close by--he might well laugh in his sleeve.
Perhaps he would be tempted to rob me of my honor. He would burn his
fingers, though, for I have many a good friend who knows my stamp and
would see that I had my rights.'

"Then I thanked God and went back, and thanked your good angel, dear
wife, who held his hand so long over your brow, and kept you sleeping so
soundly that you could not once call to me. When at last I did go to bed
and you asked me the hour, I told you you were two hours younger than
you were, for it was nearly four; and now you will understand why you
could not get me to leave the feathers at six, and why you had to
dismiss the coach and order it for another day."

"Certainly," answered Constanze; "but the sly man must not think that I
was so stupid as not to know something of what was going on. You didn't
need, on that account, to keep your beautiful new numbers all to
yourself."

"That was not the reason."

"No, I know. You wanted to keep your treasure away from criticism yet a
little while."

"I am glad," cried the good-natured host, "that we shall not need to
grieve the heart of a noble Vienna coachman to-morrow, when Herr
Mozart cannot arise. The order, 'Hans, you ma