ality that M. Thillard was
sure Jouffroy would be enchanted with it. For himself, he held that it
shewed a development of musical form and expression extremely
remarkable. He could not quite understand it. There was, he knew not
what, in it, of strange and powerful; a music of the North; something of
bizarre, something of mysterious, even of terrible, "_une emotion
epouvantable_," cried M. Thillard, working himself to a climax as the
theme inspired him, "There is genius in that work, but certainly
genius." Madame Vauchelet nodded gravely at this pronouncement. It ought
to be published, she said. But this supreme recompense of genius was
apparently hard to achieve. The score was sent from publisher to
publisher: "from pillar to post," said Hadria, "if one might venture on
a phrase liable to misconstruction on the lips of disappointed
ambition."

But at the end of a long and wearisome delay, the little packet was
returned in a tattered condition to its discouraged author. M. Thillard
made light of this. It was always thus at first. One must have patience.

"One must live," said Hadria, "or at least such is the prejudice under
which one has been brought up."

"All will come," said M. Thillard. "You will see."

On one sunny afternoon, when Hadria had returned, thrilled and inspired
by a magnificent orchestral performance at the Chatelet, she found
Madame Vauchelet, M. Thillard, and the great Jouffroy waiting in her
_salon_. Jouffroy was small, eccentric, fiery, with keen eager eyes,
thick black hair, and overhanging brows. M. Thillard reminded Madame
Temperley of her kind permission to present to her M. Jouffroy. Madame
Temperley was charmed and flattered by Monsieur's visit.

It was an exciting afternoon. Madame Vauchelet was eager to hear the
opinion of the great man, and anxious for Hadria to make a good
impression.

The warm-hearted Frenchwoman, who had lost a daughter, of whom Hadria
reminded her, had been untiring in her kindness, from the first. Madame
Vauchelet, in her young days, had cherished a similar musical ambition,
and Jouffroy always asserted that she might have done great things, as a
performer, had not the cares of a family put an end to all hope of
bringing her gifts to fruition.

The piano was opened. Jouffroy played. Madame Vauchelet, with her large
veil thrown back, her black cashmere folds falling around her, sat in
the large arm-chair, a dignified and graceful figure, listening gravely.
The