mournfully that he should never give her another.  But Hedwig was more animated than he had ever seen her, and often stopped to ask questions about the coming performance.  It was evident that she was entirely absorbed with the thought of at last hearing to its fullest extent the voice that had haunted her dreams; most of all, with the anticipation of what this wonderful singer would be like.  Dwelling on the echo of his singing for months had roused her interest and curiosity to such a pitch that she could hardly be quiet a moment, or think calmly of what she was to enjoy; and yet she looked so very cold and indifferent at most times.  But Nino had noticed all this, and rejoiced at it; young as he was, however, he understood that the discovery she was about to make would be a shock that would certainly produce some palpable result, when she should see him from her box in the theatre.  He trembled for the consequences.

The lesson was over all too soon, and Nino lingered a moment to see whether the very last drops of his cup of happiness might not still be sweet.  He did not know when he should see her again, to speak with her; and though he determined it should not be long, the future seemed very uncertain, and he would look on her loveliness while he might.

“I hope you will like my cousin’s singing,” he said, rather timidly.

“If he sings as he has sung before he is the greatest artist living,” she said calmly, as though no one would dispute it.  “But I am curious to see him as well as to hear him.”

“He is not handsome,” said Nino, smiling a little.  “In fact, there is a family resemblance; he is said to look like me.”

“Why did you not tell me that before?” she asked quickly, and fixed her blue eyes on Nino’s face as though she wished to photograph the features in her mind.

“I did not suppose the signorina would think twice about a singer’s appearance,” said Nino quietly.  Hedwig blushed and turned away, busying herself with her books.  At that moment Graf von Lira entered from the next room.  Nino bowed.

“Curious is it,” said the count, “that you and the about-to-make-his-appearance tenor should the same name have.”

“He is a near relation, Signor Conte,—­the same whom you heard sing in the Pantheon.  I hope you will like his voice.”

“That is what we shall see, Signor Professore,” answered the other severely.  He had a curious way of bowing, as though he were made only in two pieces, from his waist to his heels, and from his waist to the crown of his head.  Nino went his way sadly, and wondering how Hedwig would look when she should recognise him from her box in the theatre that very evening.

It is a terrible and a heart-tearing thing to part from the woman one loves.  That is nothing new, you say.  Everyone knows that, Perhaps so, though I think not.  Only those can know it who have experienced it, and for them no explanations are in any way at all necessary.  The mere word “parting” calls up such an infinity of sorrow that it is better to draw a veil over the sad thing and bury it out of sight and put upon it the seal on which is graven “No Hope.”