ld, at
least not more than six and thirty. Beside he is a very clever man--a
musical critic and good writer; in fact, one of Mr. Winthrop's most
intimate friends."

"That, I presume, speaks volumes in his favor," I said, perhaps with a
touch of sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes; Mr. Winthrop is an unerring judge of character; that is, of late
years."

"Well, I would nearly as soon think of marrying Daniel Blake as this Mr.
Bovyer. I have never been in love, but I have an idea what it is," I
said, following Mrs. Flaxman to her room.

"But Mr. Bovyer might teach you. Did you ever read Shakespeare's
Midsummer Night's Dream?"

"Oh, yes; and of Titania and Bottom of course, but that was only a
dream--Mr. Bovyer is a very solid reality. But I must not stay here
gossiping. Mr. Winthrop will be waiting for my description of the music."

I slipped into my own room to lay aside my wraps, still smiling over Mrs.
Flaxman's childish ideas respecting Mr. Bovyer in the _role_ of a lover,
and also a little troubled about the wording of the report I was expected
to give. His smile would be more sarcastic than ever, if I confessed my
tears; and, alas, I had but little other impression to convey of the
majestic harmonies than one of profound sadness. I glanced into my
mirror; the picture reflected back startled me. In the handsome gown,
with the same gems that had once enhanced my mother's charms, the
transformation wrought was considerable; but my eyes were shining with a
deep, unusual brilliancy, and a new expression caused by the influences
of the evening had changed my face almost beyond my own recognition. I
went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book.
I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my
presence. I went to the fireside. On the mantle I noticed, for the first
time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so
mournfully in my ears. I took it in my hand and went nearer the light,
soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my
guardian over his book. When I looked at him his book was closed, and his
eyes regarding me attentively.

"Do you recognize the face?"

"Oh, yes. I wonder he looks like other men."

"Why should he look differently?"

"Because he was different. I wonder what his thoughts were when he was
writing that symphony?" I held the bust off reflectively.

"Did you enjoy your evening's entertainment?"

"Yes and no,