scarded copies; he was sure of it. The word "Magnhild" was written
with more skill than the rest; the writer must have had frequent
practice in that early in life.

But with such trifling discoveries Tande could not silence the terrible
accusation that stared at him from this letter. He lay still a long time
after letting the letter drop from his hands.

Presently he began to drum on the sheet with the fingers of his right
hand; he was playing the soprano part of a melody. Had it reached the
piano, and had Magnhild heard it, she would surely have recognized it.

Suddenly Tande sprang out of bed and into the adjoining room. Stationing
himself behind the curtain he took a cautious survey of the opposite
house. Quite right: the windows were all open, two women were at work
cleaning; the house was empty. Tande paced the floor and whistled. He
walked until he was chilled through. Then he began to dress. It usually
took him an hour to make his toilet, during which he went from time to
time to the piano. To-day he required two hours, and yet he did not once
go near the piano.

In the forenoon he took a long walk, but not to the spots they had all
visited together. During this walk what had occurred began to assume a
shape which made him feel less guilty than he had felt at first. The
next day he scarcely felt that he was in the least to blame. Toward
evening of the third day his conscience began again to trouble him; but
on the following morning he rose from his couch ready to smile over the
whole affair.

The first day he had twice commenced a letter to Magnhild but had torn
up each effort. On the fourth day he found, instead of the attempted
letter, a musical theme. This was capable of being developed into a
complex, richly harmonized composition, full of magnificent unrest.
Several bars of the simple, refined melody which had conjured up for
Magnhild dreams of her childhood might be sprinkled through it. Could
not the two motives be brought into conflict?

But as he failed to succeed to his satisfaction, Tande concluded that
neither at this place nor it this time could it be accomplished. He
remained at the Point one week longer, and then packing up his things he
departed. The piano he left behind him, and the key with it. He set
forth for Germany.

CHAPTER IX

About five years had elapsed when one Sunday evening in spring, a party
of young girls passed up the one large street of the coast town. They
were