“He will remember!” she thought swiftly, as she ran to the instrument and sat down before it.  With a strength born of her desperation she mastered the quivering of her hands, and catching her breath, began in a weak and trembling voice the melody of Rubenstein: 

  “Thou art as a flower,
    So pure and fair thou art;
  I gaze on thee, and sorrow
    Doth steal into my heart.

  “I would lay my hands upon thee,
    Upon thy snowy brow,
  And pray that God might keep thee
    So pure and fair as now.”

Helen did not know how she was singing, she thought only of telling her yearning and her pain; she was so choked with emotion that she could scarcely utter a sound at all, and the song must have startled those who heard it.  It was laden with all the tears that had been gathering in Helen’s heart for days.

She did not finish the song; she was thinking, “Will he understand?” She stopped suddenly as she saw a shadow upon the porch outside, telling her that Mr Howard had come nearer.  There was a minute or so of breathless suspense and then, as the shadow began to draw slowly backwards, Helen clenched her hands convulsively, whispering to herself, “He will think it was only an accident!  Oh, what can I do?”

There are some people all of whose emotions take the form of music; there came into Helen’s mind at that instant a melody that was the very soul of her agitation and her longing—­MacDowell’s “To a Water Lily;” the girl thought of what Mr. Howard had said about the feeling that comes to suffering mortals at the sight of something perfect and serene, and she began playing the little piece, very softly, and with trembling hands.

It is quite wonderful music; to Helen with her heart full of grief and despair, the chords that floated so cold and white and high were almost too much to be borne.  She played desperately on, however, because she saw that Mr. Howard had stopped again, and she did not believe that he could fail to understand that music.

So she continued until she came to the pleading song of the swan.  The music is written to a poem of Geibel’s which tells of the snow-white lily, and of the bird which wonders at its beauty; afterwards, because there is nothing in all nature more cold and unapproachable than a water-lily, and because one might sing to it all day and never fancy that it heard him, the first melody rises again, as keen and as high as ever, and one knows that his yearning is in vain, and that there is nothing for him but his old despair.  When Helen came to that she could go no farther, for her wretchedness had been heaping itself up, and her heart was bursting.  Her fingers gave way as she struck the keys, and she sank down and hid her face in her arms, and broke into wild and passionate sobbing.  She was almost choking with her pent-up emotions, so shaken that she was no longer conscious of what went on about her.  She did not hear Mr. Howard’s