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and no doubt yours comes within that

category,'' this half sneeringly.
``Uncle,'' interposed Mildred tactfully,

``you must not be so persistent. Signor
Diotti prizes his violin highly and will

not allow any one to play upon it but
himself,'' and the look of relief on

Diotti's face amply repaid her.
Mr. Wallace came in at that moment,

and with perfunctory interest in his
guest, invited him to examine the splendid

collection of revolutionary relics in
his study.

``I value them highly,'' said the
banker, ``both for patriotic and ancestral

reasons. The Wallaces fought and
died for their country, and helped to

make this land what it is.''
The father and the violinist went to

the study, leaving the daughter and old
Sanders in the drawing-room. The

old man, seating himself in a large armchair,
said: ``Mildred, my dear, I do

not wonder at the enormous success of
this Diotti.''

``He is a wonderful artist,'' replied
Mildred; ``critics and public alike place

him among the greatest of his profession.''
``He is a good-looking young fellow,

too,'' said the old man.
``I think he is the handsomest man I

ever have seen,'' replied the girl.
``Where does he come from?''

continued Sanders.
``St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany.''

``Has he a family?''
``Only a sister, whom he loves

dearly,'' good-naturedly answered the
girl.

``And no one else?'' continued the
seemingly garrulous old man.

``None that I have heard him speak
of. No, certainly not,'' rather impetuously

replied Mildred.
``How old is he?'' continued the old man.

``Twenty-eight next month; why do you
wish to know?'' she quizzically asked.

``Simply idle curiosity,'' old Sanders
carelessly replied. ``I wonder if he is

in love with any one in Tuscany?''
``Of course not; how could he be?''

quickly rejoined the girl.
``And why not?'' added old Sanders.

``Why? Because, because--he is in
love with some one in America.''

``Ah, with you, I see,'' said the old
man, as if it were the greatest discovery

of his life; ``are you sure he has not
some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany

as well as here?''
``What a foolish question,'' she

replied. ``Men like Angelo Diotti do
not fall in love as soldiers fall in line.

Love to a man of his nobility is too
serious to be treated so lightly.''

``Very true, and that's what has
excited my curiosity!'' whereupon the old

man smoked away in silence.
``Excited your curiosity!'' said

Mildred. ``What do you mean?''
``It may be something; it may be

nothing; but my speculativeinstinct has
been aroused by a strange peculiarity in

his playing.''
``His playing is wonderful!'' replied

Mildred proudly.
``Aye, more than wonderful! I

watched him intently,'' said the old
man; ``I noted with what marvelous

facility he went from one string to the
other. But however rapid, however difficult

the composition, he steadily avoided
one string; in fact, that string remained

untouched during the entire hour he
played for us.''

``Perhaps the composition did not
call for its use,'' suggested Mildred,

unconscious of any other meaning in the
old man's observation, save praise for

her lover.
``Perhaps so, but the oddity

impressed me; it was a new string to me.
I have never seen one like it on a violin

before.''
``That can scarcely be, for I do not

remember of Signor Diotti telling me
there was anything unusual about his

violin.''
``I am sure it has a fifth string.''

``And I am equally sure the string
can be of no importance or Angelo

would have told me of it,'' Mildred
quickly rejoined.

``I recall a strange story of
Paganini,'' continued the old man,

apparently not noticing her interruption; ``he
became infatuated with a lady of high

rank, who was insensible of the admiration
he had for her beauty.

``He composed a love scene for two
strings, the `E' and `G,' the first was

to personate the lady, the second himself.
It commenced with a species of

dialogue, intending to represent her
indifference and his passion; now sportive,

now sad; laughter on her part and
tears from him, ending in an apotheosis

of lovingreconciliation. It affected the
lady to that degree that ever after she

loved the violinist.''
``And no doubt they were happy?''

Mildred suggested smilingly.
``Yes,'' said the old man, with

assumed sentiment, ``even when his
profession called him far away, for she had

made him promise her he never would
play upon the two strings whose music

had won her heart, so those strings were
mute, except for her.''

The old man puffed away in silence
for a moment, then with logical directness

continued: ``Perhaps the string
that's mute upon Diotti's violin is mute

for some such reason.''
``Nonsense,'' said the girl, half impatiently.

``The string is black and glossy as
the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on

the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of
Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but

if that string is not a woven strand from
some woman's crowning glory, then I

have no discernment.''
``You are jesting, uncle,'' she

replied, but her heart was heavy already.
``Ask him to play on that string; I'll

wager he'll refuse,'' said the old man,
contemptuously.

``He will not refuse when I ask him,
but I will not to-night,'' answered the

unhappy girl, with forced determina-
tion. Then, taking the old man's hands,

she said: ``Good-night, I am going to
my room; please make my excuses to

Signor Diotti and father,'' and wearily
she ascended the stairs.

Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon
after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars

were lighted and regrets most earnestly
expressed by the violinist for Mildred's

``sick headache.''
``No need to worry; she will be all

right in the morning,'' said Sanders,
and he and the violinist buttoned their

coats tightly about them, for the night
was bitter cold, and together they left

the house.
In her bed-chamber Mildred stood

looking at the portrait of her lover. She
studied his face long and intently, then

crossing the room she mechanically took
a volume from the shelf, and as she

opened it her eyes fell on these lines:
``How art thou fallen from Heaven,

O Lucifer, son of the Morning!''
***

Old Sanders builded better than he knew.
XI

When Diotti and old Sanders left
the house they walked rapidly

down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven,
and the streets were bare of pedestrians,

but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue,
looking at a distance like a trail

of Megatheriums, gliding through the
darkness. The piercing wind made the

men hasten their steps, the old man by
a semi-rotary motion keeping up with

the longer strides and measured tread of
the younger.

When they reached Fourteenth Street,
the elder said, ``I live but a block from

here,'' pointing eastward; ``what do
you say to a hot toddy? It will warm

the cockles of your heart; come over to
my house and I'll mix you the best

drink in New York.''
The younger thought the suggestion

a good one and they turned toward the
house of old Sanders.

It was a neat, red brick, two-story
house, well in from the street, off the



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