alon_--shall they be hawked about the town? "Chopin's
wash-basin--going!--for ten sous--going!" My pictures, caskets,
tapestries, each rug and chair that I have loved, and the great piano
with its voice and soul of love. She will guard them. Faithful lady!
Cruel one--my soul curses thee, crushes thee forever--false dawn that
could not stand the sun's deep kiss--Aurora. Unrest--unrest--will it
never cease? Shall I lie quiet? There will be Polish earth upon me. The
silver goblet holds it. It is here beside me now. I reach and touch it
with my hand. Dear land of music and the soul! The silver cupful from
thy teeming fields is always near. It shall spill upon my breast--upon
this racked and breathless burden! But the heart within that beats and
burns--it shall be severed, chord by chord--it shall return to the land
that gave it. Dear Poland! I see thee in the mists--with my mother's
brow and mouth and chin. Poland that sings and weeps--sad land. My
heart is thine! Cleanse it in sweet-smelling earth! In thy bosom it
shall rest--at last--rest!

THE MAN WITH THE GLOVE

I

"Ho, _Tiziano_! Ala-ala-_ho_! _Tizi-ah-no_!"

The group in the gondola raised a merry call. The gondola rocked at the
foot of a narrow flight of steps leading to a tall, sombre dwelling. The
moonlight that flooded the gondola and steps revealed no sign of life in
the dark front.

The young man sitting with his back to the gondolier raised the call
again: "What, ho!--Tiziano!" The clear, tenor voice carried far, and
occupants of passing gondolas turned to look and smile at the dark,
handsome youth as they drifted past.

The door at the top of the steps opened and Titian ran lightly down. He
carried in his hand a small lute with trailing purple ribbons, and the
cap that rested on his thick curls was of purple velvet. He lifted it
with gentle grace as he stepped into the gondola and took the vacant
seat beside a young woman facing the bow of the boat.

Her smiling face was turned to him mockingly. "Late again, Signor
Cevelli, and yet again!" She plucked at the strings of a small
instrument lying on her lap, and the notes tinkled the music of her
words.

"Pardon, Signora, a thousand pardons to you and to your gracious lord!"
He bowed to the man opposite him.

"Giorgio? Oh--Giorgio doesn't mind." Her soft lips smiled. "He's too big
and lazy. He never minds." Her laugh rose light and sweet. The three men
joined in.

The boat shot into mi