ing disorder. The place seemed strange and
unfamiliar.

"Your keys, sir," the butler said, holding out the bunch.

"Yes," he answered, "I'm ready."

As he spoke he started. Clearly in the stillness of the morning he
heard a few soft notes struck on the piano. At that hour the sound was
most unusual. He listened. The Flower Music of "Parsifal." With a
swiftness that left the astonished butler staring after him, he darted
toward a door. In a moment he had torn the portiere aside and had
crossed the polished floor of the music room. Miriam was seated at the
piano, her fingers resting on the keys.

"You are down!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," she answered, neither turning round nor looking up.

"You are very early."

"Yes," she assented. Then she whirled about on the music stool. "I
came down to see you."

"Why?"

Both spoke with a simple directness--with the manner of those dealing
in ultimate moments with the unmistakable facts.

"You told me last night that you were doing as you do because of what
I have said. I cannot take the responsibility. I'd rather that you
thought even worse of me than you do. Oh!" she cried, bending her head
down on her hands, which clasped the rack of the piano. "I am,
false--false! I cannot be true even in my falsity. All that I have
been telling you is not the truth."

"Yes?" he interrupted, eagerly.

"When you judged me--when you told me--or showed me what you thought
of me--I recognized what I was doing--what I was. I saw I was false.
My pride drove me to do something else. It was a punishment for
myself--a price I must pay. As falsely as you thought I tried to
please you--as falsely, _really_, I made myself hateful to you. I told
you every untrue, miserable thing of which I could think. It seems as
if any little remnant of dignity which I had demanded it. But to have
you say that you were influenced by my lies--were going to give up so
much that was splendid and great--because of them! Oh, you must
believe me now. I could not bear it."

"Then you don't think I am altogether contemptible?"

"I think you are the finest and best and strongest man I know," she
said, bravely.

On one knee, beside her, he had his arm about her.

"Bless you, darling," he cried. "Then I can tell the truth, too. I
think that you are the dearest and sweetest woman, and I love
you--love you!"

"I--I don't deserve it," she sobbed.

"I would not," he said, "let myself believe what you told me at first,