ed him to such an extent that
he asked her whether he might be hers. (He meant, of course, whether she
would be his, but the other is a more polite way of expressing it.)

"You shall be mine," said the sorceress, "if I may take you."

"You may do anything you like," replied Jubal.

The girl took him at his word and they married. First of all he taught
her to sing and play, and then he gave her everything she asked for.
But since was a sorceress, she always wanted the things which he most
objected to giving to her, and so, gradually, she wrested his will from
him and made him her slave.

One fine day Mrs. Jubal had become a great singer, so great that when
the audience called "Jubal!" it was not Mr. but Mrs. Jubal who took the
call.

Jubal, of course, longed to regain his former position, but he scorned
to do it at his wife's expense.

The world began to forget him.

The brilliant circle of friends who had surrounded Mr. Jubal in his
bachelor chambers now surrounded his wife, for it was she who was
"Jubal."

Nobody wanted to talk to him or drink with him, and when he attempted to
join in the conversation, nobody listened to his remarks; it was just
as if he were not present, and his wife was treated as if she were an
unmarried woman.

Then Mr. Jubal grew very lonely, and in his loneliness he began to
frequent the cafes.

One evening he was at a restaurant, trying to find somebody to talk to,
and ready to talk to anybody willing to listen to him. All at once he
caught sight of his old friend the commercial traveller, sitting at a
table by himself, evidently very bored. "Thank goodness," he thought,
"here's somebody to spend an hour with--it's old Lundberg."

He went to Mr. Lundberg's table and said "good evening." But no sooner
had he done so than his friend's face changed in so extraordinary a
manner that Jubal wondered whether he had made a mistake.

"Aren't you Lundberg?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"Don't you know me? I'm Jubal!"

"No!"

"Don't you know your old friend Peal?"

"Peal died a long time ago."

Then Jubal understood that he was, from a certain point of view, dead,
and he went away.

On the following day he left the stage for ever and opened a school for
singing, with the title of a professor.

Then he went to foreign countries, and remained abroad for many years.

Sadness, for he mourned for himself as for a dead friend, and sorrow
were fast making an old man of him. But he was glad tha