I CAN’. speak for Captain Osborn,” said Marie, as she seated herself before the piano, “but I fear, Mrs. Osborn, that you misjudge Mr. Stanton.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Hugh, bowing at the compliment.

“Papa insists,” Marie went on, as she looked at Hugh with her laughing eyes, “that you are wonderfully appreciative, and, doubtless, critical.”

“Indeed,” interposed Mrs. Osborn, with some surprise, “well, had I known that, I would have been more careful in the selections I played.” Marie turned to the instrument, softly fingering the keys and striking a chord here and there until finally she drifted into Chopin’s Fifth Nocturne. Her interpretation was that of a born artist. The music fairly rippled from her deft fingers, as she glided on and on from one beautiful cadence to another, until at last—note by note—as if sobbing a farewell, the melody died away. Then striking a few chords sharply, she took up a lively refrain, which gradually materialized into Rubinstein’s Melody in F. There was a wild abandon and rare power in her playing that appealed to Hugh Stanton’s soul like the wild sweep and rush of sighing winds in a primeval forest.

Again the music melted away to a single note, which quivered like an echo that would not cease its reverberations. Then, gathering the notes in her masterful hands, she played Beethoven’s exquisite Moonlight Sonata. As the rich tones came in answer to her wonderfully magic touch, Marie seemed oblivious of time or of place, and conscious only of the music which swayed and lifted her. She astonished Hugh, Mrs. Osborn, and the captain as well, in her wonderful interpretation of the grand old master. Presently she glided skilfully into the first movement, sustaining and making each melodious note sing out like a thing of life; then, with a genius bordering on the infinite, she masterfully executed the allegretto movement with vivaciousness, and the agitato movement with a hurried, standing effect, and concluded the adagio with an indolent, romance melody of whispers. There was something almost divine in the rich harmonies that filled the room with rapturous ecstasy, while the languorous air trembled with renascent song.

Hugh Stanton had arisen and gradually approached the player as the music went on. When it ceased, he seemed suddenly to awaken. Mrs. Osborn was noticeably moved by Marie’s renditions, and yet her admiration was for the execution rather than for the music itself. She observed Hugh’s agitation, and mentally resolved that Marie Hampton’s music should prove the solution of keeping Hugh Stanton from declaring himself to Ethel Horton. To Hugh she spoke, in a low voice, of Marie’s wonderful gift and of her lovable character. Hugh, however, answered only in monosyllables, for he had been strangely moved.

Mrs. Osborn interpreted his silence differently; and rejoiced at her clever planning in bringing them together in her own home, that she might read what was written.

Hugh escorted Marie to her home that evening. As they walked along he was conscious of a wonderful power in the girl, which he could not understand. In the uncertain darkness her beautiful face was forgotten, and he thought of her only as a materialized genius, whose musical skill had enthralled him. Naturally reserved in the presence of women, he felt more awkward than ever when they were alone, and he was not sure that he answered intelligently Marie’s questions and vivacious girlish talk.

At the door, their hands touched for a moment, as Hugh bade her good night. He could not quite understand his feelings, but he concluded that it was only the remembrance of the music that thrilled him.

Looking back, as he walked along the street, he saw the dim outline of a man following him. So deeply absorbed was Hugh in his own thoughts that he did not hear the footsteps gradually gaining on him. When he reached a darker portion of the street, and not far from the hotel, his pursuer tapped him lightly on the shoulder and said:

“Look ‘e here, Stanton; I propose bein’ plenty p’lite, but I think we’d better hev a talk. I’m not assoomin’ to be much on chin music, but what I say goes.” Hugh turned and found himself face to face with Bill Kinneman, the cowboy. Kinneman was noticeably under the influence of liquor.

“What do you want?” asked Hugh, rather brusquely.

“I want you to browse on a different part of the range an’ quit hangin’ ‘round Major Hampton’s; thet’s what I want, an’ you’ll do as I say, or by the Eternal I’ll give you a dose uv this,” and quicker than a flash he pushed a revolver into Hugh’s face.

The streets were deserted and they were quite alone. Hugh realized his imminent danger. Kinneman held a cocked revolver in his face, and it would be folly to do other than try to effect a compromise. Presently he said: “Kinneman, I thought you had some sense.”

“Waal, hain’t I?” asked the cowboy, still holding his revolver in close proximity to Hugh’s face.

“You are certainly not a good judge of human nature,” replied Hugh.

“Waal, now look ‘e here, my wayfarin’ frien’, I’m no corn-field sailor, an’ I want you to know it,” said Kinneman. “The old major’s daughter possesses sooperier rectitood, and is not fur you. She don’t step in yer class, but she does step in mine, see? An’ you’re flounderin’ in the quicksands uv error if you think different.”

“Oh,” said Hugh, “I am beginning to understand what you mean. You are in love with Miss Hampton, and you fancy that I am also.”

“Thet’s ‘bout what I’d say if I wuz unbosomin’ myself,” replied Kinneman, as he pressed a little closer to Hugh.

“Your fears are groundless,” replied Hugh, emphatically. Kinneman dropped his revolver to his side and exclaimed, “Pardner, is thet squar’.”

“My dear sir,” replied Hugh, “I do not know what love is. I have made no untruthful statement, if that is what you mean by asking, ‘Is that square?’.rdquo;

“Thet’s all I wanted to hear you say,” said Kinneman; “but somethin’ mighty thrillin’ is liable to happen if you reach fur yer artill’ry, so jist keep yer hands away from yer belt.” With this, he turned on his heel. He walked a few steps and then stopped.

“Look ‘e here, Stanton,” said he, “speakin’ wide-open like, there’s only one special thing on earth thet I’ve set my heart on, an’ if I find thet you’ve lied to me, I’m ‘lowin’ I’ll push you off the face uv the earth, an’ fill you so full uv holes that St. Peter won’t know you. I’ll take my chances on the major bein’ favorable, an’ thet girl’s goin’ to be mine if I hev to kill a baker’s dozen to git her.” With this he walked away in the darkness.

Hugh hastened to the hotel. Whether from the exaltation occasioned by Marie’s playing, or from the counteracting influence of Bill Kinne-man’s wicked threat, or from both, he knew not, but nevertheless he felt strangely disturbed, as if a soul chord had suddenly been unkeyed in his life’s harp.

He sat by the window far into the night, endeavoring to choose a course to pursue. Lord Avondale would soon return. A sense of duty forced itself upon him when he thought of Ethel Horton, and he determined to declare himself to her without further delay. He tried in vain to analyze his feelings toward the beautiful and accomplished Marie. A mist rose up before him and he seemed to hear once more the Moonlight Sonata. Then he felt that his interest in Marie was embodied solely in the one word, music. He longed for a confiding hour with his old boyhood friend, Jack Redfield. “If he were only here,” he mused, “I would talk it all over with him and be guided by his advice.” Seating himself at his table, he determined to write to him. Then he fell to musing again, and left the letter unwritten.