ith a sudden
beating of the heart, a sudden eagerness, I stepped hastily forward,
pushed back the dividing curtain, and entered the room whence proceeded
those sounds.

In the middle of the room, which was bare and empty, but which had large
windows looking across the melancholy plateau, and to the terrible
figure of the runner at the end of the avenue--stood a boy--a child with
a violin. He was dressed richly, in velvet and silk; he was grown--the
slender delicacy of his form was set off by the fine clothing that rich
men's children wear; his beautiful waving black hair was somewhat more
closely cut, but the melancholy yet richly colored young face that
turned toward me--the deep and yearning eyes, the large, solemn gaze,
the premature gravity, were all his--it was Sigmund, Courvoisier's boy.

For a moment we both stood motionless--hardly breathing; then he flung
his violin down, sprung forward with a low sound of intense joy,
exclaiming:

"_Das Fraeulein_, _das Fraeulein_, from home!" and stood before me
trembling from head to foot.

I snatched the child to my heart (he looked so much older and sadder),
and covered him with kisses.

He submitted--nay, more, he put his arms about my neck and laid his face
upon my shoulder, and presently, as if he had choked down some silent
emotion, looked up at me with large, imploring, sad eyes, and asked:

"Have you seen my father?"

"Sigmund, I saw him the day before yesterday."

"You saw him--you spoke to him, perhaps?"

"Yes. I spoke long with him."

"What did he look like?"

"As he always does--brave, and true, and noble."

"_Nicht wahr?_" said the boy, with flashing eyes. "I know how he looks,
just. I am waiting till I am grown up, that I may go to him again."

"Do you like me, Sigmund?"

"Yes; very much."

"Do you think you could love me? Would you trust me to love those you
love?"

"Do you mean him?" he asked point-blank, and looked at me somewhat
startled.

"Yes."

"I--don't--know."

"I mean, to take care of him, and try to make him happy till you come to
him again, and then we will all be together."

He looked doubtful still.

"What I mean, Sigmund, is that your father and I are going to be
married; but we shall never be quite happy until you are with us."

He stood still, taking it in, and I waited in much anxiety. I was
certain that if I had time and opportunity I could win him; but I feared
the result of this sudden announcement and separat