or Angelo
would have told me of it," Mildred quickly rejoined.

"I recall a strange story of Paganini," continued the old man,
apparently not noticing her interruption; "he became infatuated with a
lady of high rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her
beauty.

"He composed a love scene for two strings, the 'E' and 'G,' the first
was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a
species of dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his
passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and tears from
him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the
lady to that degree that ever after she loved the violinist."

"And no doubt they were happy?" Mildred suggested smilingly.

"Yes," said the old man, with assumed sentiment, "even when his
profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he
never would play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so
those strings were mute, except for her."

The old man puffed away in silence for a moment, then with logical
directness continued: "Perhaps the string that's mute upon Diotti's
violin is mute for some such reason."

"Nonsense," said the girl, half impatiently.

"The string is black and glossy as the tresses that fall in tangled
skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of Tuscany. It may be an
idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman's
crowning glory, then I have no discernment."

"You are jesting, uncle," she replied, but her heart was heavy already.

"Ask him to play on that string; I'll wager he'll refuse," said the old
man, contemptuously.

"He will not refuse when I ask him, but I will not to-night," answered
the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then, taking the old
man's hands, she said: "Good-night, I am going to my room; please make
my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the
stairs.

Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon after joined old Sanders, fresh
cigars were lighted and regrets most earnestly expressed by the
violinist for Mildred's "sick headache."

"No need to worry; she will be all right in the morning," said Sanders,
and he and the violinist buttoned their coats tightly about them, for
the night was bitter cold, and together they left the house.

In her bed-chamber Mildred stood looking at the portrait of her lover.
She studied his face long and intently, then crossing the room she
me