Mrs. Flaxman's fears were realized. She was detained from her pickles and preserves for over a fortnight; but the days spent then in the city were an entirely new revelation of life to me. Mr. Winthrop had a circle of literary friends, who seemed determined to make his stay so pleasant that he would not be in a hurry to return to the solitude of Oaklands. When I saw his keen enjoyment of their society, and the many varied privileges he had in that brief period—musical, artistic, and literary, I was filled with surprise that he should make his home at Oaklands at all, and expressed my wonder to Mrs. Flaxman.

"Oh, he often goes away—sometimes to Europe, and sometimes to the great American centres of thought and life; then he comes home apparently glad of its quiet and freedom from interruption. I think he uses up all the raw experiences and ideas he gets when away."

I thought her reply over, and wondered if it was the usual habit of literary people to go out on those foraging expeditions and bring back material to be used up in weeks of solitude. We were either out among friends, at concerts, lectures, evening gatherings, or else receiving Mr. Winthrop's particular friends at our hotel, every evening. I enjoyed those evenings at home, I think, the very best of all. We sat late, supper being served about midnight—a plain, sensible repast that, with a man of Mr. Winthrop's means, might certainly betoken high thinking. However, the intellectual repast served to us reminded me of the feasts of the gods, or even better, in old Homeric times. There were condensed thoughts that often kept me puzzling over their meanings long after their words had died on the air. Mrs. Flaxman sat, a mostly silent listener, but in no wise showing weariness at the lateness of the hour, or mental strain imposed in following such abstract lines of thought. I too listened silently, save in reply to some direct remark, but with pained, growing thoughts, that often left me utterly weary when the little company dispersed. I would often stop listening and fall into vague, hopeless speculations as to the number of centuries that must elapse before I could overtake them. Saddest fancy of all was that my powers might be too limited even to do this. Our daylight hours were, in great measure, passed in making and receiving calls from Mrs. Flaxman's friends, who seemed very quick to find out she was there, and in visiting the huge dressmaking and dry goods establishments which she patronized. I found it quite difficult, at times, to reconcile the fact that those we met by day were, in the main, created in the same mental likeness as those I listened to with such admiration in the evening. I used to close my eyes at times and fancy the old heathen, mythology to be true, and that the gods were actually revisiting the earth, and bringing with them the high conceptions from Olympus, I was able more clearly than ever to recognize how high were Mr. Winthrop's ideals, so far as this world goes, of human excellence and, with deepest humiliation, remembered how far I must have come short of his lowest standards. I went to Mrs. Flaxman with this new and painful discovery, and as usual, she brought her consolation.

"Very few can hope to attain such excellence of culture and intellect as these men possess. You and I ought to be grateful to our Creator if he has given us brain power sufficient to appreciate and comprehend their words. I know it has given Mr. Winthrop deep satisfaction to see you so interested in their conversation."

"How do you know that?" I asked, pleased at her words.

"I look at him sometimes while you get so absorbed listening that you seem to forget everything; and I see the gratified expression of his face while he watches you. I know it would be a disappointment to him if you should develop into a fashionable, feather-headed woman."

"Or a widow-helping philanthropist," I said, laughing.

"Of the two, he would prefer the latter."

"But neither would be his ideal."

"I am not altogether certain of that; but I do know he holds in strong dislike a woman who simply exists to follow the fashions, no matter how attractive she may be."

"I am ashamed to say I like getting new things, especially when they are becoming," I said, a little shamefacedly.

"I am sure you would get tired of a perpetual round of new hats and frocks, and trying them on, I am not apt to be mistaken in a person."

"But it is vastly easier to think of harmonious colors and combinations of dry goods, than it is to puzzle over those knotty subjects we listen to here in the evening, or to translate Chopin or Wagner, or the other great masters."

"But once mastering any of these, the pleasure arising therefrom gives satisfaction to a noble cast of mind that a whole gallery of Worth's choicest costumes could not produce."

"Solomon said: Much study is a weariness of the flesh."

"Solomon was an intellectual dyspeptic. But granting that it is a weariness, it is something that pays well for the weariness."

"If all the world were to come to Mr. Winthrop's way of thinking, it would be a sad thing for the dressmakers."

"Not necessarily. They would still be needed, but they would do the thinking about what would best suit the style of their respective customers; and the latter would be left free of that special task, to devote their minds to their own interior furnishing."

"Ah, you describe a second Utopia, or the golden age. A few in each generation might reach that clear, chill region of sublime thought; but the rank and file of womankind, and perhaps of mankind, would despise them as cranks."

"But if they had something vastly better than the respect of the careless and uncultured, need they mind what these would say?"

"Possibly not; but in most women's hearts there is an innate love of adornment, and the art they will not relegate very willingly to others."

"I did not think you cared so much for dress."

"You and Mr. Winthrop are putting the strongest temptations in my way, and then expect that I shall calmly turn my dazzled eyes inwards upon the unfurnished, empty spaces of my own mind."

"You seemed to care almost too little for elegance of attire, I thought."

"What the eyes do not see the heart never longs for. But glossy velvets, shimmering silks, with colors perfected from the tints of the rainbow; laces that are a marvel of fineness and beauty; and gems that might dazzle older heads than mine, thrown recklessly in my way, could any young creature fond of pretty things turn away from them, with the indifference of a wrinkled philosopher? I should have staid at Oaklands, and saved my money for the Mill Road folk."

"You must have the temptation, if you are to have the credit of overcoming it."

"Is there not a wonderful petition left for us by One who knows all things? 'Lead us not into temptation.'"

"I do not think this is a parallel case. God's way with His people, ever since Eve was denied the fruit in Eden, has been to prove them by temptation. His promise that there shall, with the temptation, be a way of escape, is what we need to claim."

"My way of escape will be to go back to Oaklands, where an occasional tea party will be the most dangerous allurement to vanity in my way."

"But you will not always remain there. Mr. Winthrop will not be so remiss in his duty as your guardian as to bury you there. Marriage, and a judicious settlement in life, are among the probabilities of your near future."

My cheeks crimsoned; for marriage was one of the tabooed subjects of conversation at Madame Buhlman's. Only in the solitude of our own rooms did we dare to converse on such a topic. But no doubt we wove our romances as industriously, and dreamed our dreams of the beautiful, impossible future stretching beyond our dim horizons, as eagerly as if we had been commanded to spend a certain portion of each day in its contemplation.

Mrs. Flaxman noticed my embarrassment, and, after a few moments said:—"Perhaps the fairy prince has already claimed his own."

I laughed lightly, but still felt ill at ease as I said: "I have never met him, and begin to doubt if he has an existence."

"He is sure to come, soon or late; probably too soon to please me. I shall miss you sadly when you go away from us."

I knelt beside her chair, a lump gathering in my throat, and my slow coming tears ready to drop.

"I do not know why you should miss me, but it makes me so glad to hear you say so. I have no one to really love me in the wide, wide world, that is, whose love I can claim as a right, and sometimes the thought makes me desolate."

She sat for awhile silently stroking my hair.

"I do not think yours will be a desolate, or lonely life, Medoline. It is only the selfish who are punished in that way. The blessing of those about the perish will overtake you, making the shadowy places in your life bright."

"But there are no perishing ones conveniently near for me to save. I am of little more use in the world than a humming bird."

"Already some of the Mill Road folk have been comforted by you. You remember it is recorded of the Mary of Bethany; 'She hath done what she could.' For that act of gratitude to the Master, her memory will be cherished long after the sun is cold. We do not know if somewhere all our minutest acts of unselfishness are not recorded, to be met with one day with glad surprise on our part."

"I would rather be so remembered," I said with eager longing, "than to be a Cleopatra or Helen of Troy."

"In what way is that?" Mr. Winthrop asked, as he stood looking down at me from behind Mrs. Flaxman's chair. I sprang to my feet in consternation. "We did not hear you enter," I faltered, very much ashamed to be found in such a childish attitude.

"I know that, since I would not have been just now admitted to your confidence."

I wheeled him up an arm chair, and stirred the fire very industriously, hoping thereby to divert his attention. He sat down quietly. His massive head laid back against the rich, dark leather seemed to bring the features out in stronger relief; the fire light falling uncertainly on his face, but enabling me to note distinctly its expectant look. I went to the window and stood for sometime watching the passers by in the street, thinking thus to pass away the time until Mr. Winthrop should forget to further question me; but he suddenly startled me by coming towards the window where I stood, and saying:

"You have not answered my question."

"The remark was only intended for Mrs. Flaxman's ears, and was of no importance, any way."

"Mrs. Flaxman then will enlighten me as to the bent of your ambition," he said, quite too authoritatively for my liking, and turned towards her.

"Our conversation drifted to personal endeavor. We were talking of many things, when Medoline, just as you came in, expressed the wish to be helpful to others rather than to shine in cold and stately splendor."

"Ah, yes. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were excellent illustrations of the splendor. I am glad she is able to avail herself of her classical studies in conversation."

I looked mutely at Mrs. Flaxman, but she was gazing intently into the burning coals, with a slight flush on her face, caused, I knew, by Mr. Winthrop's words. A few moments after I glanced at my guardian. His eyes were closed, the lines of his face looked hard and stern. I wondered if it never softened even in sleep, or did it always wear that look that some way brought to my mind the old Vikings of the frozen north.

Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the concert. Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and would not accompany us.

"I thought you particularly admired Beethoven's Ninth Symphony," I exclaimed, with surprise.

"I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer gives them great praise. I would as soon hear that Larkum baby crowing as to hear such a masterpiece mangled."

"Some passages will be well rendered, surely."

"What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord? I shall expect, however, a full account of the performance from you."

"I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in Belgium. I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after."

"And why not?"

"It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far beyond my powers to master."

His face softened, while he arose from his chair and came a few steps nearer to me.

"Only one or two human beings, so far as we know, have had musical powers equal to Beethoven. Most men are satisfied if they can perform harmoniously his creations."

"I could never do that. I might by years of hard study get so far as to strike the correct notes, but the soul and expression would elude me, simply because I have not brain power sufficient to comprehend them. A thrush would be foolish to emulate the nightingale."

"Yes but some one might be gladdened by its own simple note," he said, gently.

I was silent, while his words sank comfortably in my heart.

Looking up, at last, I caught his eye.

"I will try to be satisfied with my thrush's note, and make the best of it."

"That is right, but make sure that you are not any better song bird than the thrush, before you rest satisfied with its simple accomplishment."

Very earnestly and sincerely I promised him to do my best, and then followed Mrs. Flaxman from the room. Our escort proved to be Mr. Bovyer, a grave man, not so young as Mr. Winthrop, and who had a genuine passion for classic music. I fancied from his name and partiality for German composers that he must be either directly or remotely of Teutonic origin. Beethoven was his great favorite. He averred that the latter had penetrated further into the mysteries of music than any other human being. He seemed transformed while we sat listening to the great waves of harmony bewildering our senses; for, notwithstanding Mr. Winthrop's prophecy, the concert was a success. He had a stolid face. One might take him almost for a retired, well-to-do butcher; but when the air was pulsating with delicious sounds, his face lighted up and grew positively handsome.

"I wonder how you will endure the music of the immortals, that God listens to, if you get with the saved by and bye?" I said, impulsively.

He shook his head doubtfully, but gave me at the same time a look of surprise.

"I do not ask for anything better than Beethoven," he replied quietly.

Some way I felt saddened. The Creator was so much beyond the highest object of his creative skill, even though that is or might be one so gloriously endowed as Beethoven; it seemed strange that a thinking, intellectual being would grasp the less when he might lay hold on the greater. I glanced around on the gay, richly-dressed throng—pretty women in garments as harmonious in form and color almost as the music that was thrilling at least some of us; some of them fair enough, I fancied, to be walking in a better world than ours; then, by some strange freak of the imagination, I fell to thinking of the poverty and sorrow, and breaking hearts all about us, until the music seemed to change to a minor chord; and away back of all other sounds I seemed to hear the sob and moan of the dying and broken-hearted. Perhaps some new chord had been touched in my own heart that had never before responded to human things; for in spite of myself I sat and wept with a full, aching heart. I tried to shield my face with my fan and at last regained my composure, and tried, in sly fashion, to dry my eyes with the bit of lace I called my handkerchief, and which I found a very poor substitute for the substantial lawn hitherto used. At last I regained my composure sufficiently to look up, when I found Mr. Bovyer regarding me keenly. He glanced away, but after that his manner grew sympathetic, and on our way home he said,

"I am glad to know you can understand great musical conceptions."

"I found it very, very sad. I scarce ever realized how much pain there might be in this world, as for a little while I did to-night."

"The tears were sorrowful then, and not glad?" he said, gently.

"My tears are always that. I cannot conceive a joy so great as to make me weep."

"Your heart is not fully wakened yet, some day you will understand; but be thankful you can understand a part. Not many at your age feel the master's touch so keenly." When we said good-night, he asked permission to call next day. I waited for Mrs. Flaxman to reply, and turned to her, seeing she hesitated. She smiled and I could see answered for me.

"We shall be happy to see you. Mr. Winthrop receives his friends, I believe, to-morrow evening." As we went to our rooms she said:—"Won't it be wonderful if you have captivated Mr. Bovyer's heart?—I am sure Mr. Winthrop considered him a safe escort, so far as love entanglements were concerned."

"That old man thinking of love! He looks as if he thought much more of his dinner than anything else."

"Probably he does bestow some attention on it; but he is not old, 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 rÔle 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,—I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop. Please don't ask me to describe it."

"I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer—he could tell me better than you. He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a fear he sees too far beneath our mask."

"I don't want to see him any more then," I said impetuously.

"Why not?"

"I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than you do, Mr. Winthrop."

"How do you know that I object?"

"Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?"

"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way—meant humanity at large, rather than my own individual self."

"Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?" I said, taking a step nearer, and looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally penetrating.

"No, Medoline. You, least of any one I know," he said, quietly. I looked at him with surprise—perhaps a trifle grieved.

"Does that offend you?" he asked after a pause.

"It wounds me; for I am your friend."

"I am glad of that, little one."

"Glad that you have given me pain?" I asked, with an odd feeling as if I wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.

He left his chair and came to my side.

"Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline? I meant that it gave me pleasure that you were my friend. I did not think that you cared for me."

"I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard on me. I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one else, scarcely, to love." I was beginning to think I must either escape hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes, which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my tears.

"I did not think I was hard on you," he said, gently. "I have been afraid lest I was humoring your whims too much; but unselfishness, and thought for the poor, have been such rare traits in the characteristics of my friends, I have not had a heart hard enough to interfere with your instincts."

Here was an entirely new revelation to me; I bethought me of Mrs. Flaxman's remark a short time before, and repeated it to him.

"I do not think I shall ever have paternal feelings towards you, Medoline, I am not old enough for that. Tell Mrs. Flaxman, if she speaks that way again, I am not anxious for her to fasten in your heart filial affection for me."

"But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?" I pleaded.

"Quite as much," he said, with emphasis. I forgot my tears; for some way my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary incumbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing harmonies of Beethoven's majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away in their still depths again.