He stood at the side of the brilliantly lighted opera-house with a note-book and pencil in his hand. Would that interminable symphony never be finished? The audience listened breathlessly, but he, the musical critic of a thriving daily paper, only drummed idly with his fingers and stared vacantly at the people near him.

There was a momentary hush, the orchestra leader waved his baton, and the trained musicians, with perfect precision began the brilliant finale. The audience was unusually sympathetic, and for an instant after the closing passage all was still; then came a great burst of applause.

The leader bowed his acknowledgment, but the clamour only increased. The critic sank wearily into an empty seat and looked across the house. He started and grew pale, as among the throng of fashionables he saw a face that he knew—that he had known.

A sweet face it was too; not beautiful, but full of subtle charm and a haunting tenderness that he had tried to forget. He sat like one in a dream, and did not know that the orchestra was about to play the next number till its opening measures woke him from his abstraction.

TrÄumerei! Anything but that! Oh, God, this needless pain! And he thought he had forgotten!

He stood again in a little room which the autumn moonlight made as bright as day. Down below on the rocks was the far-off sound of the sea, and she, with his roses on her breast, sat before the piano and played dreamily, tenderly, yes, this same TrÄumerei that was now breaking his heart.

He had stood behind her, with his arms around her, his dark, eager face down close to hers, and whispered huskily: "Sweetheart, I love you."

And she had turned her face up to his and said, softly, "I love—you—too—dear;" and he had hugged her tightly to him and covered her face with burning kisses that were almost pain. And—that—had—been—their—betrothal. Then for a little while there was happiness—then there was a misunderstanding—and there—she was—and——

Up through those arches of light the clear, sweet melody stole. Had he forgotten? Had she? He seized his opera-glass and a quick turn of the screw brought her again close to him.

Yes, there were tears in her eyes; he could see the white lids quiver, and her lips trembled and——

With a deeper throb of pain than any he yet had known, the buried love came back, strong and sweet, as in those dear days when the whole world seemed aglow with love of her.

He rose and walked nervously around the shining circle and down the aisle to where she sat. His breath came quick and fast, he hardly dared trust himself to speak, but with a great effort he commanded himself and bent over her chair.

She looked up and her tear-wet eyes met his own. He whispered, hoarsely, "Forgive me—come out a minute—I want to speak to you."

Hardly knowing what she did, she followed him into the dimly lighted, deserted foyer.

With the last strain of that wordless love-sweet song, the dear old dream came back and, unrebuked, he put his arm about her once more.

"Sweetheart," he said, "I love you."

A soft arm stole round his neck, and she answered as of old,

"I love you, too, dear."