“Oh, I dare say I have told everybody,” he answered carelessly.

“Ah!” said she; and two or three thoughts passed through the mind of the young lady quite worthy the brain of her mother.  “I am half sorry,” she continued.  “But at least you cannot forget what you know.  That is a comfort.  And I am sure you love music too well to let me go on committing barbarisms with my hands or voice without telling me.”

Leonhard hesitated.  How far might he take this dear girl into his secrets?  “My friend Wilberforce is always saying that I ought to study abroad in the old European towns before I launch out in earnest,” said he finally.

“As architect or musician?” asked the “dear girl.”

“As architect, of course,” he answered, without manifesting surprise at the question.  “He is going himself now, and he wants me to go with him.”

“Why don’t you go?” The quick look with which he followed this question made Miss Marion add:  “It would be the best thing in the world for—­for a student, I should think.  You said once that your indecision was the bane of your life.  I beg your pardon for remembering it.  When you have heard the best music and seen the best architecture, you can put an end to this ‘thirty years’ war,’ and come back and settle down.”

“All very well,” said he, “but please to tell me where I shall find you when I come home.”

“Oh, I shall be jogging along somewhere, depend.”

“With your mind made up concerning every event five years before it happens?  If you had my choice to make, you think, I suppose, that you would decide in a minute which road to fame and fortune you would choose.”  Mr. Leonhard used his cane as vehemently while he spoke as if he were a conductor swinging his baton through the most exciting movement.

“I don’t understand your perplexity, that is the fact,” said she with wonderful candor; “but then I have been trained to do one thing from the time I could wink.”

“It was expected of me that I should rival the greatest performers,” said Leonhard with a half-sad smile.  “If I go abroad now, as you advise—­”

“Advise?  I advise!”

“Did you not?”

“Not the least creature moving.  Never!”

“If you did you would say, ‘Keep to music.’”

“I should say, ‘Keep to architecture.’  Then—­don’t you see?—­I should have all your pupils.”

“That would matter little:  you have long had all that I could give you worth the giving, Miss Ayres.”

Were these words intent on having utterance, and seeking their opportunity?

In the midst of her lightness and seeming unconcern the young lady found herself challenged, as it were, by the stern voice of a sentinel on guard.  But she answered on the instant:  “The most delicious music I have ever heard, for which I owe you endless thanks.  I have said architecture; but I never advise, you know.”

“She has not understood me,” thought Leonhard, but instead of taking advantage of that conclusion and retiring from the ground, he said, “Perhaps I must speak more clearly.  I don’t care what I do or where I go, Miss Marion, if you are indifferent.  I love you.”