* * * * *

The following day, Radowitz came downstairs with the course of the second movement of his symphony clear before him.  He worked feverishly all day, now writing, now walking up and down, humming and thinking, now getting but of his piano—­a beautiful instrument hired for the winter—­all that his maimed state allowed him to get; and passing hour after hour, between an ecstasy of happy creation, and a state of impotent rage with his own helplessness.  Towards sunset he was worn out, and with tea beside him which he had been greedily drinking, he was sitting huddled over the fire, when he heard some one ride up to the front door.

In another minute the sitting-room door opened, and a girl’s figure in a riding habit appeared.

“May I come in?” said Connie, flushing rather pink.

Otto sprang up, and drew her in.  His fatigue disappeared as though by magic.  He seemed all gaiety and force.

“Come in!  Sit down and have some tea!  I was so depressed five minutes ago—­I was fit to kill myself.  And now you make the room shine—­you do come in like a goddess!”

He busied himself excitedly in putting a chair for her, in relighting the spirit kettle, in blowing up the fire.

Constance meanwhile stood in some embarrassment with one hand on the back of a chair—­a charming vision in her close fitting habit, and the same black tricorne that she had worn in the Lathom Woods, at Falloden’s side.

“I came to bring you a book, Otto, the book we talked of yesterday.”  She held out a paper-covered volume.  “But I mustn’t stay.”

“Oh, do stay!” he implored her.  “Don’t bother about Mrs. Grundy.  I’m so tired and so bored.  Anybody may visit an invalid.  Think this is a nursing home, and you’re my daily visitor.  Falloden’s miles away on a drag-hunt.  Ah, that’s right!” he cried delightedly, as he saw that she had seated herself.  “Now you shall have some tea!”

She let him provide her, watching him the while with slightly frowning brows.  How ill he looked—­how ill!  Her heart sank.

“Dear Otto, how are you?  You don’t seem so well to-day.”

“I’ve been working myself to death.  It won’t come right—­this beastly andante.  It’s too jerky—­it wants liaison.  And I can’t hear it—­I can’t hear it!—­that’s the devilish part of it.”

And taking his helpless hand out of the sling in which it had been resting, he struck it bitterly against the arm of his chair.  The tears came to Connie’s eyes.

“Don’t!—­you’ll hurt yourself.  It’ll be all right—­it’ll be all right!  You’ll hear it in your mind.”  And bending forward under a sudden impulse, she took the maimed hand in her two hands—­so small and soft—­and lifting it tenderly she put her lips to it.

He looked at her in amazement.

“You do that—­for me?”

“Yes.  Because you are a great artist—­and a brave man!” she said, gulping.  “You are not to despair.  Your music is in your soul—­your brain.  Other people shall play it for you.”