h
a comic ruefulness--'Holt should be a happy man.'

Christopher, warned by his outbreak, which he knew by old experience to
be the merest exordium, 'played 'possum' again, with such success that
Rubach left him and he went to sleep in earnest.

Holt came to see him next day, and brought the morning papers with
him. The musician and he began to talk about writing an English opera
together, and Christopher brightened at the scheme, which opened up the
road to all his old ambitions.

'You are getting stronger now,' said Holt. 'We shall have you in to see
the piece by-and-by.'

'I shall come in a day or two,' said Christopher; and when his visitor
had gone, sat down to read over and over again the reviews of his own
work. How they would gladden Barbara, he thought. How proud she would be
of his success! how eager to hear the music! He laid-a romantic little
plot for her pleasure. He would run down when he got stronger, and
compel Barbara and her uncle on a visit to town. He would convey them to
the theatre and when Barbara was quite in love with the music he would
tell her that he himself had written it. How well the songs would
suit her voice, and how charmingly she would sing them to him! Pleasant
fancies, such as lovers have, floated through his mind. He took up his
violin for the first time for a month, and played through the old tune,
'Cruel Barbara Allen.' Rubach came in and found him thus employed.

'You are getting on, my boy,' said the good Bohemian. 'Can you come and
see the piece to-night? Are you strong enough?'

'Not to-night,' Christopher returned. 'In a day or two.' And he went oh
playing 'Cruel 'Barbara Allen' dreamily.

'What is that?' said Rubach with a wry grin. 'Is not twice or thrice of
it enough?'

Christopher laid down the instrument with a smile. When Carl had left
him he took it up again and played over to himself the songs Barbara
used to sing. He was weak and could not play for any great length of
time together, but he played every now and then a melody, and in a while
he got back again to 'Cruel Barbara Allen.' Back came Carl as he played
it.

'That tune again? what is it?'

'An old ballad,' answered Christopher. "Cruel Barbara Allen."'

He found a pleasure in speaking her name aloud in this veiled way.

'Let the girl alone,' said Carl. 'I am tired of her.'

'I am not,' said Christopher with a weak little chuckle, 'and I have
known her since she was a child.'

He began to play