ur, with the face of a Madonna; wondrous eyes of darkest blue,
hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color--in a word, the
perfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject slave, and
proud in my serfdom. When I returned to the hotel that evening I could
not sleep. Her image ever was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet
we seemed to grow farther and farther apart--she nearer heaven, I
nearer earth.

The next evening I gave my first and what I fear may prove my last
concert in America. The vision of my dreams was there, radiant in
rarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of my
vision while I played. I saw only her, played but for her, and cast my
soul at her feet. She sat indifferent and silent. "Cold?" you say. No!
No! Francesca, not cold; superior to my poor efforts. I realized my
limitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my
acknowledgments for the most generous applause I have ever received,
there was no sign on her part that I had interested her, either through
my talent or by appeal to her curiosity. I hoped against hope that some
word might come from her, but I was doomed to disappointment. The
critics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with its
plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Another sleepless night and I
was determined to see her. She received me most graciously, although I
fear she thought my visit one of vanity--wounded vanity--and me
petulant because of her lack of appreciation.

Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I knew my heart craved one word,
however matter-of-fact, that would rekindle the hope that was dying
within me.

Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: "I have been
wondering whether you cared for the performance I gave?"

"It certainly ought to make little difference to you," she replied;
"the public was enthusiastic enough in its endorsement."

"But I want your opinion," I pleaded.

"My opinion would not at all affect the almost unanimous verdict," she
replied calmly.

"And," I urged desperately, "you were not affected in the least?"

Very coldly she answered, "Not in the least;" and then fearlessly, like
a princess in the Palace of Truth: "If ever a man comes who can awaken
my heart, frankly and honestly I will confess it."

"Perhaps such a one lives," I said, "but has yet to reach the height to
win you--your--"

"Speak it," she said, "to win my love!"

"Yes," I cried, startled at her candor,