ing of the
unshuttered window; and when she wakened next day, toward nine o'clock,
the full morning sun was playing on the bed.

For several months prior to this, Ephie had worshipped Schilsky at a
distance. The very first time she saw him play, he had made a profound
impression on her: he looked so earnest and melancholy, so supremely
indifferent to every one about him, as he stood with his head bent to
his violin. Then, too, he had beautiful hands; and she did not know
which she admired more, his auburn hair with the big hat set so
jauntily on it, or the thrillingly impertinent way he had of staring at
you--through half-closed eyes, with his head well back--in a manner at
once daring and irresistible.

Having come through a period of low spirits, caused by an acute
consciousness of her own littleness and inferiority, Ephie so far
recovered her self-confidence that she was able to look at her divinity
when she met him; and soon after this, she made the intoxicating
discovery that not only did he return her look, but that he also took
notice of her, and deliberately singled her out with his gaze. And the
belief was pardonable on Ephie's part, for Schilsky made it a point of
honour to stare any pretty girl into confusion; besides which, he had a
habit of falling into sheep-like reveries, in which he saw no more of
what or whom he looked at, than do the glassy eyes of the blind. More
than once, Ephie had blushed and writhed in blissful torture under
these stonily staring eyes.

From this to persuading herself that her feelings were returned was
only a step. Events and details, lighter than puff-balls, were to her
links of iron, which formed a wonderful chain of evidence. She went
about nursing the idea that Schilsky desired an introduction as much as
she did; that he was suffering from a romantic and melancholy
attachment, which forbade him attempting to approach her.

At this date, she became an adept at inventing excuses to go to the
Conservatorium when she thought he was likely to be there; and,
suddenly grown rebellious, she shook off Johanna's protectorship, which
until now had weighed lightly on her. She grew fastidious about her
dress, studied before the glass which colours suited her best, and the
effect of a particular bow or ribbon; while on the days she had her
violin-lessons, she developed a coquetry which made nothing seem good
enough to wear, and was the despair of Johanna. When Schilsky played at
an AB