my customary aches and pains, and a delightful
sense of vigour and elasticity pervaded my frame. I rose at once, and,
looking at my watch, found to my amazement that it was twelve o'clock
in the day! Hastily throwing on my dressing-gown, I rang the bell, and
the servant appeared.

"Is it actually mid-day?" I asked her. "Why did you not call me?"

The girl smiled apologetically.

"I did knock at mademoiselle's door, but she gave me no answer. Madame
Denise came up also, and entered the room; but seeing mademoiselle in
so sound a sleep, she said it was a pity to disturb mademoiselle."

Which statement good Madame Denise, toiling upstairs just then with
difficulty, she being stout and short of breath, confirmed with many
smiling nods of her head.

"Breakfast shall be served at the instant," she said, rubbing her fat
hands together; "but to disturb you when you slept--ah, Heaven! the
sleep of an infant--I could not do it! I should have been wicked!"

I thanked her for her care of me; I could have kissed her, she looked
so motherly, and kind, and altogether lovable. And I felt so merry and
well! She and the servant retired to prepare my coffee, and I proceeded
to make my toilette. As I brushed out my hair I heard the sound of a
violin. Someone was playing next door. I listened, and recognised a
famous Beethoven Concerto. The unseen musician played brilliantly and
withal tenderly, both touch and tone reminding me of some beautiful
verses in a book of poems I had recently read, called "Love-Letters of
a Violinist," in which the poet [FOOTNOTE: Author of the equally
beautiful idyl, "Gladys the Singer," included in the new American
copyright edition just issued.] talks of his "loved Amati," and says:
"I prayed my prayer. I wove into my song

Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,
The wan despair that words could never speak.
I prayed as if my spirit did belong
To some old master who was wise and strong,
Because he lov'd and suffered, and was weak.

"I trill'd the notes, and curb'd them to a sigh,
And when they falter'd most, I made them leap
Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep
A young she-devil. I was fired thereby
To bolder efforts--and a muffled cry
Came from the strings as if a saint did weep.

"I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow
Just time enough to fit it to a mesh
Of merry tones, and drew it back afresh,
To talk of truth, and