r.

Now the theme of pity changed to hope, and hearts grew brighter under
the spell. The next movement depicted joy. As the virtuoso's fingers
darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy
voices, the earth looked roses and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her
position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was
the picture of eager happiness.

The final movement came. Its subject was love. The introduction
depicted the Arcadian beauty of the trysting place, love-lit eyes
sought each other intuitively and a great peace brooded over the hearts
of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim:

"If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
When must the love be great 'twixt thee and me
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
* * *
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes;
And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown'd
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain."

Grander and grander the melody rose, voicing love's triumph with
wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm. Mildred, her face flushed
with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in an attitude of
supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion.

As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence
pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into
thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts
of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms.

Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost
reverently. She looked into his eyes, and he knew he had struck the
chord responsive in her soul.

VIII

The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great
weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into
dawn.

A messenger brought him this note:

My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall be
delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure
you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of
heaven. Sincerely,

Mildred Wallace.

The messenger returned with this reply:

My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day.

Gratefully,
Angelo Diotti.

He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted