espair would crush her.

But she did--saw him while she was still some distance off, standing
near the portico of the Conservatorium; and at the sight of him, after
the uncertainty she had gone through during the past week, she could
hardly keep back her tears. He did not come to meet her; he stood and
watched her approach, and only when she reached him, indolently held
out his hand. As she refused to notice it, and went to the extreme edge
of the pavement to avoid it, he made a barrier of his arms, and forced
her to stand still. Holding her thus, with his hand on her elbow, he
looked keenly at her; and, in spite of the obdurate way in which she
kept her eyes turned from him, he saw that she was going to cry. For a
moment he hesitated, afraid of the threatening scene, then, with a
decisive movement, he took her violin-case out of her hand. Ephie made
an ineffectual effort to get possession of it again, but he held it
above her reach, and saying: "Wait a minute," ran up the steps. He came
back without it, and throwing a swift glance round him, took the young
girl's arm, and walked her off at a brisk pace to the woods. She made a
few, faint protests. But he replied: "You and I have something to say
to each other, little girl."

A full hour had elapsed when Ephie appeared again. She was alone, and
walked quickly, casting shy glances from side to side. On reaching the
Conservatorium, she waited in a quiet corner of the vestibule for
nearly a quarter of an hour, before Schilsky sauntered in, and released
her violin from the keeping of the janitor, a good friend of his.

They had not gone far into the wood; Schilsky knew of a secluded seat,
which was screened by a kind of boscage; and here they had remained. At
first, Ephie had cried heartily, in happy relief, and he had not been
able to console her. He had come to meet her with many good
resolutions, determined not to let the little affair, so lightly begun,
lead to serious issues; but Ephie's tears, and the tale they told, and
the sobbed confessions that slipped out unawares, made it hard for him
to be wise. He put his arm round her, dried her tears with his own
handkerchief, kissed the hand he held. And when he had in this way
petted her back to composure, she suddenly looked up in his face, and,
with a pretty, confiding movement, said:

"Then you do care for me a little?"

It would have need a stronger than he to answer otherwise. "Of course I
do," was easily said, a