wager he'll refuse," said the old man contemptuously.

"He will not refuse when I ask him; but I will not to-night," answered the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then taking the old man's hands, she said: Good-night; I am going to my room. Please make my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the stairs.

Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars were lighted, and regrets most earnestly expressed by the violinist for Mildred's "sick headache."

"No need to worry; she will be all right in the morning," said Sanders, and he and the violinist buttoned their coats tightly about them, for the night was bitter cold, and together they left the house.

In her bedchamber Mildred stood looking at the portrait of her lover. She studied his face long and intently; then crossing the room, she mechanically took a volume from the shelf; and as she opened it, her eyes fell on these lines: "How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!"

WHEN Diotti and old Sanders left the house, they walked rapidly down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, and the streets were bare of pedestrians, but blinkingeyed cabs came up the Avenue, looking at a distance like a trail of megatheriums gliding through the darkness.

When they reached Fourteenth Street, the elder said: "I live but a block from here," pointing eastward. "What do you say to a hot toddy? It will warm the cockles of your heart. Come over to my house, and I'll mix you the best drink in New York."

The younger thought the suggestion a good one, and they turned towards the house of old Sanders.

It was a neat, red brick, two-storey house, well in from the street, off the line of the more pretentious buildings on either side. As the old man opened the iron gate, the police officer on the beat passed; he peered into the faces of the men, and recognising Sanders, said: "Tough night, sir."

"Very," replied the addressed.

"All good old gentlemen should be in bed at this hour," said the officer, lifting one foot after the other in an effort to keep warm, and in so doing showing little terpsichorean grace.

"It's only the shank of the evening, officer," rejoined the old man, as he fumbled with the latch-key and finally opened the door. The two men entered and the officer passed on.

Every man has a fad. Old Sanders's fad was mixing toddies and punches.

"The nectar of the gods pales into nothingness when compared with a toddy such as I make," said he. "Ambrosia may have been all right for the degenerates of the old Grecian and Roman days, but an American gentleman demands a toddy-a hot toddy." And then he proceeded with circumspection and dignity to demonstrate the process of decocting that mysterious beverage.

The two men took off their overcoats and went into the sitting-room. A pile of logs burned brightly in the fireplace. The old man threw another on the burning heap, filled the kettle with water and hung it over the fire. Next he went to the sideboard and brought forth the various ingredients for the toddy.

"How do you like America ?" said the elder, with commonplace indifference, as he crunched a lump of sugar in the bottom of the glass, dissolving the particles with a few drops of water.

"Very much indeed!" said the Tuscan, with the air of a man who had answered the question before.

Great country for girls!" said Sanders, pouring a liberal quantity of Old Tom gin in the glass and placing it where it gradually would get warm.

And for men!" responded Diotti enthusiastically.

"Men don't amount to much here; women run everything," retorted the elder, while he repeated the process of preparing the sugar and gin in the second glass. The kettle began to sing.

"That's music for you!" chuckled the old man, raising the lid to see if the water had boiled sufficiently. “Do you know, I think a dinner horn and a singing kettle beat a symphony all hollow for real downright melody," and he lifted the kettle from the fireplace.

Diotti smiled.

With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water.

"Try that," handing a glass of the toddy to Diotti; "you will find it all right," and the old man drew an arm-chair towards the fireplace, smacking his lips in anticipation.

"Yes, Miss Wallace," this rather impatiently.

"She is very beautiful," said Diotti, with solemn admiration.

"Have you ever seen anyone prettier ?' questioned the old man, after a second prolonged sip.

"I have no desire to see anyone more beautiful," said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw him out, and determined not to yield.

You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?"

"We are human," answered the violinist. "I imagined you were like sailors, and had a sweetheart in every port.

"That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations; but for myself, one sweetheart is enough," laughingly said the musician.

"Only one! Well, here's to her! With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her," said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. "Here's wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed Tuscan beauty whom you love and who loves you."

"Stop!" said Diotti; "we will drink to the first part of that toast," and holding his glass against that of his bibulous host, continued: "To the dreamy-eyed women of my country, exacting of their lovers, obedient to their parents, and loyal to their husbands!" and his voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the words.

"Now for the rest of the toast. To the one you love and who loves you!" came from Sanders.

"To the one I love and who loves me ! God bless her!" fervently cried the guest. "Is she a Tuscan?" asked old Sanders slyly.

"She is an angel!" impetuously answered the violinist.

"Then she is an American!" said the old man gallantly.

"She is an American," repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant.

"Let me see if I can guess her name, said old Sanders. "It's it's Mildred Wallace!" and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle.

The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent.

"I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love," abstractedly continued the host while filling another glass.

"Pray why?" was anxiously asked.

66

The old man shifted his position and assumed a confidential tone and attitude. Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more universal passion than love itself. Environment may develop our character, influence our tastes, and even soften our features, but heredity determines the intensity of the two leading passions, love and jealousy. Mildred's mother was a beautiful woman, but consumed with an overpowering jealousy of her husband. It was because she loved him. The bodyguard of jealousy-envy, malice, and hatred-were not in her composition. When Mildred was a child of twelve, I have seen her mother suffer the keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace fondled the child. thought the child had robbed her of her husband's love."

She

"Such a woman as Miss Wallace would command the entire love and admiration of her husband at all times," said the artist.

"If she should marry a man she simply likes, her chances for happiness would be normal."

"In what manner?" asked the lover. "Because she would be little concerned about him or his actions."

"Then you believe," said the musician, "that the man who loves her and whom she loves should give her up because her chances of happiness would be greater away from him than with him?"

"That would be an unselfish love," said the elder.

My dear sir, from what I observed to-night, she loves you. You are a dangerous. man for a jealous woman to love. You are not a cloistered monk, you are a man before the public; you win the admiration of many; some women do not hesitate to show you their preference. To a woman like Mildred that would be torture; she could not and would not separate the professional artist from the lover or husband."

And Diotti, remembering Mildred's words, could not refute the old man's statements,

XII.

A TIPSY man is never interesting, and Sanders in that condition was no exception. The old man arose with some effort, walked towards the window, and, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept hither and thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in great gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said: "It's an awful night; better remain here until morning. You'll not find a cab; in fact, I will not let you go while this storm continues," and the old man raised the window, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so, the icy blast that came in settled any doubt in the young man's mind, and he concluded to stop over night.

It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders showed him to his room and then returned downstairs to see that everything was snug and secure. After changing his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping a dressing-gown around him, the old man stretched his legs towards the fire and sipped his toddy.

"He isn't a bad sort for a violinist," mused the old man. "If he were worth a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to let him marry her. A fiddler! A million! Sounds funny," and he laughed shrilly.

He turned his head, and his eyes caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting on the centre table. He staggered from the chair and went towards it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken coverlet placed over the instrument and examined the strings intently. "I am right," he said; "it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman's head. Eureka!" and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises were correct, returned to his chair and his toddy.

He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire: "She loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil," and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in his hands and cried piteously: "I was so young; too young to know." He spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly: "Sanders, don't be a fool!

He ambled towards the table again. " I wonder who made the violin? He would not tell me when I asked him to-night. Thank you for your pains, but I will find out myself, and he took the violin from the case. Holding it with the light slanting

over it, he peered inside, but found no inscription. "No maker's name-strange, he said. He tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and listened intently. "He must be asleep; he won't hear me," and noiselessly he closed the door. "I guess if I play a tune on it, he won't know.

He took the bow from its place in the case and tightened it. He listened again. "He is fast asleep," he whispered. "I'll play the song I always played for her-until-" and the old man repeated the words of the refrain :

Diotti sat upright in bed. "I am positive I heard a violin ! he said, holding one hand towards his head in an attitude of listening. He was wide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window-panes, and the wind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He could sleep no more. He arose and hastily dressed. The room was bitterly cold; he was shivering. He thought of the crackling logs in the fireplace below. He groped his way along the darkened staircase. As he opened the door leading into the sitting-room, the fitful gleam of the dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse.

Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed with horror. The violin and bow still in the hands of the dead man told him plainer than words what had happened. He went towards the chair, took the instrument from old Sanders's hands, and laid it on the table. Then he knelt beside the body, and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some sign of life; but the old man was beyond human aid.

He wheeled the chair to the side of the room and moved the body to the sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situation forced itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terrible power of the instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he had played on the strings telling of pity, hope,

love, and joy; but now, for the first time, he realised what the fifth string meant.

"I must give it back to its owner." "If you do, you can never regain it," whispered a voice within.

66

"I do not need it," said the violinist almost audibly.

"Perhaps not," said the voice; "but if her love should wane, how would you rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless."

"Is it not possible that, in this old man's death, all its fatal power has been expended?

He went to the table and took the instrument from its place. "You won her for me; you have brought happiness and sunshine into my life. No! No! I cannot, will not give you up." Then placing the violin and bow in

its case, he locked

it.

The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went to the door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace, and asked him to deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly

away.

Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived. Diotti told the story of the night. After the undertaker had taken charge of the body, he found on the dead man's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise which might have been caused by the pressing of some blunt

"Tonight I play for the last time," he murmured in a voice filled with deepest regret.

The feeling of exultation so common to artists who finally reach the goal of their

instrument, or by

a man's thumb.

XIII.

ON leaving the house of the dead man, Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. In flaring type at every street corner he saw the announcement for Thursday evening, March 31st, of Angelo Diotti's last appearance.

ambition was wanting in Diotti this morning. He could not rid himself of the memory of Sanders's tragic death. The figure of the old man clutching the violin and staring with glassy eyes into the dying fire would not

away.