at side of life take care of itself, while he
gave his whole attention to developing the best that was in his mind and
his voice.

Of course, he was extravagant; of course, he learned, among other
things, some of the blacker lessons of the student world. However, the
Puritanism of his ancestors stood him in good stead. It enabled him to
come into close contact with the seamy side of life; but it decreed that
the friction should never leave a sore spot behind it. It only hardened
the fibre. When he ended his studies, he knew the world at its best and
at its worst, but with this distinction: the best was an integral part
of his life; the worst was an alien, a foe to be recognized and downed,
however often it should face him.

From Goettingen, where he had met Lorimer casually, Thayer went to Berlin
to devote his time entirely to music. Lorimer joined him there, more
because he had nothing to call him back to America than because he had
anything to call him to Berlin. During the next winter, the two men, as
unlike as men could be, had shared a bachelor apartment, the one working
industriously, the other playing just as industriously. It was during
this winter that Lorimer had come into contact with the Arlts. It was
during this winter also that Thayer finally decided to give up his other
plans and make his profession centre in his voice. He had battled
against the idea with the fervor of a race to whom "the stage" offered
no distinction between vaudeville and grand opera, but inclined to the
characteristics of the one and the scope of the other. For years, he had
fought against the temptation; he yielded, one night, during the second
act of _Faust_, and, in after time, he could always identify the chord
which had punctuated his decision. Three hours later, he was studying
that fraction of Baedeker which concerns itself with Italy.

He was in Italy for two years. Then he went back to Berlin for another
year of grinding work, of passing discouragements, and of ultimate
success. There had been many and many a day when his pluck had failed
him, when he had questioned whether his voice was really good, whether,
after all, it were possible to make an artist out of gritty Puritan
stock; whether, in fact, he was not a thing of fibre, rather than a man
of temperament. His progress was great; but his ideals kept pace with
it.

It was one dazzling June morning when he took his final lesson. He had
gone onward and upward until, fo