rtality. Through
youth to maturity, and on to age, it sang with the same reiterant,
subduing, infallible loyalty--the crystallized melody of all that is
spiritual in love, in adoration, in passion.

As it died away into the distance, as if its spirit, barely audible,
were translated to the far off heavenly host, I strained my hearing to
catch that "last fine sound" that passed so gently one "could not be
quite sure where it and silence met," and for the first and last time
in my life I had known all that a violin can do.

For a moment the hush was wonderful.

Rodriguez stood like a statue. His bow still touched the strings. Yet
there was no sound that one could hear, though his own fine head was
still bent, as though he, too, listened.

He gently dropped his bow--he smiled--we all came back to earth
together.

Then such a scene followed as beggars description.

But he passed hurriedly out of sight, and no amount of tumult could
induce him to even show himself again.

Slowly, reluctantly, the audience dispersed, still murmuring. The
musicians picked up their traps, and wildly or soberly according to
their temperaments, began to dispute. It was everywhere the same
topic--the unknown work that Rodriguez had so marvellously played.

As for me--as he played, I seemed to be in the very heart of the
melody, singing it too, as his violin sang it. As the song soared
upward, my heart was filled with longing, with pain, with joy, with
regret. As it gradually died into silence a mist seemed to pass from
before my eyes, and I became suddenly conscious of the sweet face of
my beloved, growing more and more distinct, until, as the last note
died away, I was fully conscious that the music had passed between us,
like a cloud, to obscure my sight utterly, and to recede as slowly,
leaving her face before me.

I knew afterward, that, to all appearances, I had been gazing directly
into her face all the time.

Through it all I had a vague sense that what he played was not new to
me. It seemed like something I had long known and tried to say, but
could not.

In a daze, I left the stage. Silently I put my violin in its case,
pulled on my great coat, and turned up the collar about my face. I was
sure I was haggard, and I did not wish her to remark it. I knew that I
should find her waiting in the corridor with her father.

Just as I passed out of the artists' room, I was surprised to see
Rodriguez standing there in conversation w