"to win your love." Hope slowly
rekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, and
wooingly, she said:

"No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes
the chord that is responsive in my soul."

Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained her
placidity and reverted no more to the subject.

I went out into the gathering gloom. Her words haunted me. A strange
feeling came over me. A voice within me cried: "Do not play to-night.
Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition of your genius your music,
like the warm western wind to the harp, may bring life to her soul."

I fled, and I am here. I am delving deeper and deeper into the
mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place within
my grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul of
her I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven.

Your affectionate brother,
ANGELO.
ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2.

VI

When Diotti left New York so precipitately he took passage on a coast
line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased a
small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and
unattended, save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son,
who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His
dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a
rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast,
betook himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run
riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive
song, then conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither
satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever
man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but
was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work closed,
he wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, "Not yet, not
yet; I have not found it."

Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with
the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in
monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a
further thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With
an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to
the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his arms he cried,
in the agony of despair: "It is of no use! If the God of heaven will
not aid me,