The huge edifice was almost filled when William Huskins and his subject, Merle Millard, arrived. The audience was composed of persons who represented the affluent portion of society in ——, drawn together by the fame and genius of the gifted woman who was to entertain them with (reputation said) a matchless voice, under perfect control. This singer had never been heard here, and curiosity and a desire to witness the first appearance of so distinguished an artist in their location were conflicting emotions in every person present. She was a star who had but recently attracted the attention of musical critics, and was now lauded with every variety of praise the ingenuity of such men could devise. This splendid audience was the visible manifestation of their regard and labor to bring her into prominence.

When Professor Huskins, as he was called, and the young man were being shown to their seats, the entire audience was divided between their expectancy of witnessing the beginning of the entertainment, and watching the advent of those who came later than themselves. A man so distinguished as the Professor for wisdom, and a power which, to most persons seemed little short of miraculous, could not fail to create a marked degree of interest and enthusiasm among so many people wholly engrossed in looking for change and excitement.

He was scarcely less interesting than the artist they had come to see. Many hoped to receive from him some token of recognition, that would declare to those around that they were friends of so famous a man, but few were so privileged, as the Professor's thoughts were upon any subject but his own importance, and his gaze was not traveling in search of acquaintances. He looked straight before him, taking the appointed place with no idea as to what impression he might create.

It was not to be wondered at so many cast admiring glances at the two men, for they were indeed goodly men to look upon. They were a little above the average height, but their height ended all similarity in their appearance. Both had unusual faces, such as, once seen, are never forgotten. The Professor had a vigorous physique of seemingly perfect proportions, and every movement of his body indicated power and strength. His face was difficult to describe, as its great variance from the faces of ordinary men laid largely in the contour of his head, which, to a student of phrenology would have indicated well and evenly developed organs, with few marked points of protrusion; in other words, a man of understanding, who had command of many lines of thought. A well centered brain, showing no abnormal propensities in any line. It was a head pleasant to study, covered with a thick growth of dark brown hair, almost verging on black, which he always wore closely cut and brushed back from his face. He wore no beard, thus bringing his mouth into plain view. He had what might be called a large mouth, with lips set firmly together over a chin that no person could mistake to mean other than firmness and decision. His smile was pleasant, and when he laughed or talked he disclosed a set of even white teeth. But while his physique and carriage were sufficiently marked with grace and symmetry to attract notice wherever he went, it was his eyes more than anything else that lifted him out of the likeness to common men.

There are no words that will truthfully and fully portray their beauty and brilliancy. In color, they were gray when his more than active mind was in repose, but with each varying emotion, they expressed a different hue, and few persons who knew him agreed upon their actual shade, the most general opinion being that they were very dark or black. They were eyes all children trusted, but many men could not look into them. He was always scrupulously attired.

Merle was as dark as the Professor, but unlike him had rosy cheeks. He was slender in figure, the very expression of grace in movement. He wore no beard, and copied the Professor in the arrangement of his hair—an arrangement that displayed to the best possible advantage their well-shaped foreheads. There was, however, a very marked difference in the shape of their heads, and the color and expression of their eyes. Merle's face was longer and thinner, while his eyes were a decided brown, large, pensive and beautiful, fringed with long, thick, dark lashes. The two men might easily have passed for brothers, and almost any person, if asked for an opinion of the two, would have said, "the younger is the handsomer, and you can approach him easier, but the older is the one I would go to in trouble."

There was not so great a difference in their ages as many persons supposed, but the firmness and sternness habitual to the Professor's face made him look older than he really was. As you become better acquainted with them, you will be able to picture them far more clearly than my words can possibly do.

* * * * *

There is a perceptible hush and awe passing over the large audience. They are awaiting the rhythmic harmony that only such musicians as those now before them can produce, for these men represent the very acme of excellence in their various lines. They are all in their places, and only await the movement of their leader to burst forth into one of their inimitable performances.

Instinctively all eyes are riveted upon the stage, and all seem to hold their breaths, as there is borne into their ears such an influx of sweet and soothing symphony as transports them from the present, with all its agitation and conflicting influences, and carries them to that realm where harmony and concord reign supreme. It is over. The Professor and Merle instinctively seek each other's gaze, each drawing a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Wasn't that glorious?" asked Merle, and the Professor, with one of those flashes of his brilliant and dazzling eyes replied "It rewards us for all our arduous work for the day. Let us drink our fill of this nectar of the Gods, for it will give us new life and courage."

This was said with the joyous candor of a boy, and was the expression of a side of his nature few persons were privileged to witness, or even believed him to possess.

They appeared to enjoy to the full the musical treat, until suddenly Merle was stricken faint and ill, so much so indeed, that, despite the Professor's efforts to restore him to his usual strength, they were obliged to leave the scene.

Merle had seemed well and happy all through the entertainment and appeared to look forward with keen expectation to the advent of the singer, (her name was Rosalie Earle) but just as she entered, he was looking toward some friends whom he had discovered at a distance, when a loud burst of applause drew his attention to her. He shuddered, grew cold and faint, but as he looked in her direction, he could see nothing clearly; everything became dark and distant and in the fading light he could not see the woman.

He heard singing, but it seemed far away, and indistinct. Where was William? He had the power to restore him. His voice rang out, clear and trenchant—"William! William!" then he sank to unconsciousness.

So enraptured was the Professor with the marvelous singing he did not hear the first cry, and it was hard for him to realize the exact condition of his friend when the second had reached him.

His mind was temporarily absent when Merle's head dropped heavily upon his shoulder, and he even hesitated before he turned his gaze upon him.

After a while Merle stirred and lifted his head, saying he could not breathe nor see. The Professor bade him to be quiet until the song was finished, when they would go out. It was soon over, but Merle was then unable to walk, and the Professor was obliged to help him. It seemed strange to him to be unable to see. His body was trembling and icy cold, and William, who had so often cured him, seemed powerless to dispel the awful sensation which had stricken him so suddenly.

Still, above all his suffering there came the thought he was depriving William of a well loved pleasure, and as he regarded him with the strongest veneration and affection, he exerted his will to the limit, that he might regain his strength to such a degree his master might stay and hear the beautiful singer whose sweet tones he had heard, but whom he could not see. He strove as never before in his life to gain his lost power over the physical body to animate and control it, but despite his efforts, he sank down at William's feet, inanimate and cold.

William raised him in his arms and helped carry him to a carriage, and they were soon at Merle's home, where his mother and sister were waiting for him. They obeyed the Professor's every command, reverencing him almost to the point of worship, but morning found them still at Merle's bedside, as he revived from one fainting condition only to sink into another, with a season of high fever between.

The Professor's power seemed incapable of producing more than transient relief, and he confessed himself at a loss to understand the illness, unless it might be that Merle had been overworked the day before, but that seemed improbable, as he had been entranced many times for a longer period. Finally he sank into a deep sleep, induced by the Professor's power, and William, advising mother and sister to seek repose, went to his own home, assuring them that all immediate danger was over, and promising to return soon. He instructed them, however, to send for him at once should Merle awake and resume the alternate fever and chills.

They promised to do so, and went to seek sleep, for their confidence in his power was absolute. He had used Merle as a subject for years, had always been good to him and them, and to question his will never occurred to them, so they left Merle and went to their beds, while William went home to study and think.