Nancy Turner, Teacher of Dancing.

This inscription engraved on a brass plate had become as familiar to me as the grim row of terraces and the solemn-looking door to which it was nailed. How many times had I not passed it, as I walked from my house to my place of business. Passed it on snowy mornings and gray misty evenings, or in the summer time when birds chirruped and sang and the sun smiled down upon the earth. I had read it over and over again, as I was wont to do the names of the streets and squares, especially on my homeward walk. L—— Street—a turn to the right, the inscription on the door, B—— square—and I was already half-way home to my cheerful fireside, to my books and my violin; where Shakespeare, Milton and Beethoven would be ready at my whispered call to help me while away the hours of the evening.

But once as I passed this certain row of terraces, something, hitherto unknown, seemed to take possession of me. I began to see the sign in a new light and wondered why I had taken it for granted all these years,—and never once thought that indeed Nancy Turner must be a real person. It was true that I had never seen anyone enter the house, but then I passed it at hours when people would not be likely to be taking dancing lessons. I began to wonder at my being so absent-minded that I could for years read these five words and never have them leave more than a slight impression.

And suddenly I found myself wondering what sort of person this dancing teacher was. Surely young and talented, perhaps even beautiful. I mused about her half the way home. I even wove some strange and fanciful day dreams about her—when to my sorrow I remembered I was no longer young!

And therefore Nancy Turner was also middle-aged. For had not the inscription bearing her name been on that door ever since I was a young boy—perhaps long before my time.

For days I thought about her and failed in explanations to myself, of my sudden strange fascination for an unknown name.

The days flew by, and my curiosity to meet and talk with her only increased.

So one cold and gloomy evening I took courage and knocked at her door.

To my surprise the gruff voice of a man bade me enter. I found myself in a small room, blue with smoke and poorly furnished. An old man was cooking supper, as he hummed some weird old gypsy tune. He seemed scarcely to notice me and displayed neither surprise nor dissatisfaction at my sudden appearance. I murmured some excuse about being in the wrong house, that I was looking for Nancy Turner in order to learn about some of the newest dance steps.

And now you know the story of my life, of hers, and of your own, he said with a sigh. Strange that I should have asked your name. And stranger still that you came here as if led by the hand of Fate. But now that we have discovered that we are half brothers I hope you will come often to chat with me, here in this house where we were both born. I will tell you more about our beautiful mother, of her fame when she danced at the opera, of the days long ago when she and my father and I lived here so happily, of the tragedy—but no—let us forget the past. She forgave—therefore our friendship must be without shadow from the start.