One sultry Sunday afternoon they sat within the vine-clad veranda, the

strains of the violin and guitar blending on the languorous, perfumed

air. As the last notes died away Kate exclaimed,-"I never had any one accompany me who played with so much expression.

You give me an altogether different conception of a piece of music; you

seem to make it full of new meaning."

"And why not?" Darrell inquired. "Music is a language of itself, capable

of infinitely more expression than our spoken language."

"Who is speaking, then, when you play as you did just now--the soul of

the musician or your own?"

"The musician's; I am only the interpreter. The more perfect the harmony

or sympathy between his soul, as expressed in the music, and mine, the

truer will be the rendering I give. A fine elocutionist will reveal the

beauties of a classic poem to hundreds who, of themselves, might never

have understood it; but the poem is not his, he is only the poet's

interpreter."

"If you call that piece of music which you have just rendered only an

interpretation," Kate answered, in a low tone, "I only wish that I could

for once hear your own soul speaking through the violin!"

Darrell smiled. "Do you really wish it?" he asked, after a pause,

looking into the wistful brown eyes.

"I do."

She was seated in a low hammock, swinging gently to and fro. He sat at a

little distance from her feet, on the topmost of the broad stairs, his

back against one of the large, vine-wreathed columns, Duke stretched

full length beside him.

A slight breeze stirred the flower-scented air and set the pines

whispering for a moment; then all was silent. With eyes half closed,

Darrell raised the violin and, drawing the bow softly across the

strings, began one of his own improvisos, the exquisite, piercing

sweetness of the first notes swelling with an indescribable pathos until

Kate could scarcely restrain a cry of pain. Higher and higher they

soared, until above the clouds they poised lightly for an instant, then

descended in a flood of liquid harmonies which alternately rose and

fell, sometimes tremulous with hope, sometimes moaning in low undertones

of grief, never despairing, but always with the same heart-rending

pathos, always voicing the same unutterable longing.

Unmindful of his surroundings, his whole soul absorbed in the music,

Darrell played on, till, as the strains sank to a minor undertone, he

heard a stifled sob, followed by a low whine from Duke. He glanced

towards Kate, and the music ceased instantly. Unobserved by him she had

left the hammock and was seated opposite himself, listening as though

entranced, her lips quivering, her eyes shining with unshed tears, while

Duke, alarmed by what he considered signs of evident distress, looked

anxiously from her to Darrell as though entreating his help.




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