ill. Her saucy face was tilted to his.

He bent suddenly, and kissed it full on the mouth.

She started back, fetching him a ringing slap on the cheek.

"You ugly thing!" she said. She laughed.

Franz gazed serenely at the sky, a pleased smile on his lips.

"You're too ugly to look at," said the girl promptly.

He looked down at her and smiled.

"That tasted good," he said.

She pouted a little and glanced at the door.

His glance followed hers.

"Sing me some more," he suggested craftily.

She threw back her head, and her lips broke into a strange, sweet sound.
The dark eyes were half veiled, and her full throat swelled.

The wood about them darkened as she sang. Swift birds flashed by to
their nests, and the green leaves quivered a little. A clash broke among
the tree-tops; they swayed and beat heavily, and big drops fell. The
girl's eyes flashed wide. The song ceased on her lips. She glanced at
the big drops on the sill and then at the open door.

"Come in," she said shyly.

He opened the door and went in.

III

"We feared that you were not coming, Herr Schubert," said the countess
suavely.

The group had gathered in the music-room.... The storm had ceased, and a
cool breeze came through the window. Outside in the castle grounds dim
lights glimmered.

The young man advanced into the group a little awkwardly, rubbing his
eyes as if waking from a dream.

The baron, standing by the piano, glanced at him sharply under lowered
lids. His lips took on a little smile, not unkind, but full of secret
amusement.

The musician passed him without a glance, and, seating himself at the
piano, threw back his head with an impatient gesture. He turned swiftly
the leaves of music that stood on the rack before him.

"Sing this," he said briefly.

He struck a few chords, and they gathered about him, taking up their
parts with a careless familiarity and skill. It was Haydn's "Creation."
They had sung it many times, but a new power was in it to-night. The
music lifted them. The touch on the keys held the sound, and shaped it,
and filled it with light.

When it was finished they glanced at one another. They smiled; then they
looked at the player. He sat wrapped in thought, his head bowed, his
fingers touching the keys with questioning touch. They moved back
noiselessly and waited. When he was like this, they did not disturb him.

The melody crept out at last, the strange, haunting Hungarian air, with