, but he always did drink too much. Then we moved to Harlem and I
rented this place for the summer. I expect to make a tidy sum before I
leave, if Benny only stays straight."

There was something pathetic in this last cadence, and the two boys
leaned back and listened to the presto of the Chopin B flat minor
Sonata, which Wilkins took at a tremendous pace.

"Sounds as if he were the wind weaving over his own grave," said Harry,
mournfully. The boys had drunk too much, and the close atmosphere and
music were beginning to tell on their nerves.

"He's a tramp of genius, that's what he is," growled Billy crossly.

"But we've got a story," interjected the other.

"Yes, and were taken in finely. Hanged if I didn't believe the fellow
while he was yarning."

"You gentlemen won't mind me leaving you, will you? It's near closing-up
time, and I've got to be the boss. Benny, he sticks close to the pianner
as it gits late. I reckon he feels his licker. Ain't he a dandy with
them skinny fingers o' his?"

She moved away, giving her husband a warning not to leave his perch, and
went barwards to overhaul her receipts....

The lights were nearly all out and the drumming of the breakers on the
beach clearly could be felt. The young men paid their bill and shook
hands with the pianist. He leaned over the edge of the platform and
spoke to them in a low voice.

"Come again, gentlemen, come again. Don't mind what she tells you. I'm
not her husband, no matter what she said just now. She owns me body and
soul for this year. I swear to God it's not the drink. I need the
experience in public. I must play all the time before that awful nervous
terror wears off. This is the place to get in touch with common folk; if
I can hold them with Chopin what won't I be able to do with an
appreciative audience! Believe me, gentlemen, I pray of you; give me a
year, only one year, and I'll get out of this nervousness and this
nightmare, and _the_ world of music will hear of me. Only give me time."
Feodor Wilkins placed his hand desperately on the pit of his stomach;
his wife screamed:

"Benny, come right over here and count the cash."

The boys got into the open air and scented the surf with delight, a moon
enlaced with delicate cloud streamers made magic in the sky; then Harry
growled:

"Say, Bill, do you believe that story?" ...

BRYNHILD'S IMMOLATION

She had infinitely sad, wide eyes. The sweet pangs of maternity and art
had not be