y lodging and my
food, Herr Kapellmeister," she said proudly, "You have sent me your own
servant, and she has been to me like a foster mother. You have cared
for me, and the Doctor and the medicines are all at your cost." She
steadied herself, still rejecting his hand, "And I--" she said, "I have
earned nothing; I have been like a beggar. If you will not let me
sing, Herr Kapellmeister, then--"

He looked at her for a moment in a wounded way and his brow darkened:
"Well--?" he said.

"Then you must take away your servant and the Doctor, and--and your
kindness," said Kaya bravely, "and let me starve again."

"You are proud--eh? You remember that you are a Countess?" The
Kapellmeister laughed harshly.

"I am not a Countess any more," said Kaya, "but I am proud. Will you
let me sing?"

"When you are strong again and your voice has come back," he returned
dryly, "you can sing, and not before. As for paying your debts--
There is time enough for that. Now will you have the goodness to
return to the couch, Fraeulein, or do you prefer to faint on the floor?"

Kaya glanced at the stern face above her, and her lip quivered: "You
are angry," she said, "I have hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"The Doctor will be in presently," continued Ritter coldly, "I daresay
he can restore you, if you faint, better than I. Perhaps you will obey
his orders as you reject mine." There was something brutal in the tone
of his voice that stung the girl like a lash. She turned and tottered
back to the couch, the Kapellmeister following, his arms half extended
as if to catch her if she fell; but she did not fall. He was still
frowning, and he seemed moody, distraught. "Shall I cover you?" he
said.

Kaya put out her hand timidly and touched his: "You have been so kind
to me," she whispered, "Every day you have come, and when I was
delirious I heard your voice; and Marta told me afterwards how you sat
by the bed and quieted me, and put me to sleep.--Don't be angry." All
of a sudden she stooped and put her lips to his sleeve.

He snatched his hand away roughly. "You have nothing to be grateful
for," he cried, "Pah! If a man picks up a bird with a broken wing and
nurses it to life again for the sake of its voice, is that cause for
gratitude? I do it for my own ends, child. Tschut!" He turned his
back on her and went over to the window. "If you want to know when you
can sing, ask the Doctor. If he says you may--"

"Y