roping about in the dark after silly superstitions,
cringing at the scowl of mean Pierces and Winches, was dead. There was
an end of him, and good riddance. In his place there had been born a
Poet--he spelled the word out now unabashed--a child of light, a
lover of beauty and sweet sounds, a recognizable brother to Renan and
Chopin--and Celia!

Out of the soothing, tenderly grateful revery, a practical suggestion
suddenly took shape. He acted upon it without a moment's delay, getting
out his letter-pad, and writing hurriedly--

"Dear Miss Madden,--Life will be more tolerable to me if before
nightfall I can know that there is a piano under my roof. Even if it
remains dumb, it will be some comfort to have it here and look at it,
and imagine how a great master might make it speak.

"Would it be too much to beg you to look in at Thurston's, say at eleven
this forenoon, and give me the inestimable benefit of your judgment in
selecting an instrument?

"Do not trouble to answer this, for I am leaving home now, but shall
call at Thurston's at eleven, and wait.

"Thanking you in anticipation,

"I am--"

Here Theron's fluency came to a sharp halt. There were adverbs enough
and to spare on the point of his pen, but the right one was not easy to
come at. "Gratefully," "faithfully," "sincerely," "truly"--each in turn
struck a false note. He felt himself not quite any of these things. At
last he decided to write just the simple word "yours," and then wavered
between satisfaction at his boldness, dread lest he had been over-bold,
and, worst of the lot, fear that she would not notice it one way or
the other--all the while he sealed and addressed the letter, put it
carefully in an inner pocket, and got his hat.

There was a moment's hesitation as to notifying the kitchen of his
departure. The interests of domestic discipline seemed to point the
other way. He walked softly through the hall, and let himself out by the
front door without a sound.

Down by the canal bridge he picked out an idle boy to his mind--a lad
whose aspect appeared to promise intelligence as a messenger, combined
with large impartiality in sectarian matters. He was to have ten
cents on his return; and he might report himself to his patron at the
bookstore yonder.

Theron was grateful to the old bookseller for remaining at his desk in
the rear. There was a tacit compliment in the suggestion that he was
not a mere customer, demanding instant attention. Bes