he secrecy of his
own room, and no one had heard it yet; and it was his masterpiece.

Ortensia felt that it was hers. That strange voice of his that was not
deep, yet never seemed high-pitched, breathed softly through and through
her being, as a spring breeze through young leaves, more felt than
heard, yet a wonder to hear. The notes vibrated, but did not tremble;
they swelled and grew strong and rang out fiercely, but were never loud;
and again they died away, but were not quite silent, and lingered
musically in the air, though a whisper would have drowned them.

The girl's eyes grew dark under their drooping lids, and her face was
luminously pale; her delicate young lips moved now and then
unconsciously, and they were icy cold; but she felt a wild pulse beating
at her throat, as if her heart were there and breaking to be free.

She felt his look on her too, but she could not answer it, and when the
song ended she turned from him and laid her white cheek against the high
back of the chair, looking out at the cypress against the sky. She
could not tell whether it was pain or pleasure she felt, but it was
almost more than she could bear, and her hands strained upon each other,
clasped together just on her two knees.

In the silence the velvet curtain was lifted and fell again, and Pina's
step was heard on the marble floor.

'I have brought you some water to drink,' said the nurse quietly; and
speaking to both, 'Your throats must be dry with so much singing!'

Ortensia took one of the tall glasses and drank eagerly before she
turned her face from the window.

'Thank you,' she said, recovering herself and smiling at Pina.

'And you, Maestro?' asked the latter, offering Stradella the drink.

'Thank you,' he said, 'but it is too much. With your permission!'

And then, with the effrontery of youth in love, he deliberately took the
almost empty glass from which Ortensia had drunk, poured a little into
it from the other, and drank out of it with a look of undisguised
gratitude on his handsome face. Thereupon a little colour came to
Ortensia's ivory-pale cheek, and Pina smiled pleasantly. Instead of
setting down the salver, however, she took it away, leaving the room
again.

'How beautiful that song is!' Ortensia said in a low voice, and glancing
at Stradella almost timidly, when they were again alone. 'How more than
beautiful!'

'It is yours,' answered the musician. 'I made it for you--it is not even
written down