quickly with a little smile that it was well Ruth did not see, ·་ but of sacred music. That ought not to be for God alone. There are evil passions in man, my child, of which you know nothing, that music I will drive out. But that concerns you not at all. Your father is tied down here until he dies. You will not move hence." There was a little silence which Ruth broke tremulously. Will tell me you what you mean, "she asked, " exactly what you mean? Do not try to soften it or alter it. Dear father! I know he must be getting old; but I didn't think, I had not noticed-" here her voice broke and perforce she was silent.

..

77

Nothing, nothing," said Crispi hastily and made a motion to rise, but Ruth stretched out her hand to prevent him. "I am no child," she said firmly, "to be put off with your nothings. You have said some things that will make a difference in my life. First, that my father sings by rote; and, secondly, that his voice now disgraces his calling. Do you mean that he ought not to sing?" I mean, answered Crispi, that according to my theories he ought not to give up a sure income for a few qualms of conscience. But that if I thought as you do, I should feel his singing to be desecration. Far better would it be that you should choose singing for a profession, using your fresh beautiful voice to bring man nearer to God, than for your father to continue in the Cathedral because he makes his living there. That is what I meant, Ruth, and if I hurt you I cannot help it; you wanted to know."

Yes, I wanted to know," said Ruth quietly.

Then for the first time Crispi looked at her. His conscience smote him when he noticed the pallor of the girl's face, the lines of pain around the sensitive mouth. He began to be a little ashamed of him self, and tried to make excuses.

"Do not think of my words, my dear,' he said cheerily. "You are a good woman, and must know more about this than I do. Put it from you.'

"I cannot, I must not," she answered vehemently. 'Don't you see that I must think of it? I should be despicable if I did not.

The pair had a very silent walk home after this. The sky had become suddenly irradiated with beautiful crimson glow,

and Crispi, who loved warmth and color, seemed to give it most of his attention, although he now and again glanced at Ruth's face furtively. A queer fancy took possession of him. He wondered to himself what strange transformation the magician Love would make in that pure, saddened face. A downright human love might make an artist of this saint, might set loose the imprisoned soul within her. But would it ever come to her?

"Mr. Crispi," Ruth asked as she opened the gate that led from the Close to the house, " will you let me bring the result of my thoughts to you at some other time? You have given me much pain, but I am afraid you have spoken the truth."

And this closes the first chapter of Ruth Deland's life, if life it could be called. She felt strong within her two opposing emotions. One was that her father had nothing to bring to the service of God, was naught but a workman earning his wage,-and that scarcely honestly; the other that she ought not, should not, could not degrade her voice by singing for hire. Music was too great a temptation as it was. If Ruth had been a Romanist her course would have lain clear before her, her vocation been pronounced; but she was not, -and meanwhile she and her father must live, although she had to still many qualms of conscience.

She felt sore too at leaving Wellminster, the pretty peaceful country town and the quiet ways of her childhood and girlhood, to do that which she considered not right in itself though it was more right than what had been done. Crispi, having gained what he wanted, was generous. He desired the honor and glory of bringing out a new soprano more even than the money to be made out of her; and when he set out to return to his beloved Italy, Deland and his daughter were ready to accompany him. "We shall say goodby to this land of fog and mist. You shall see color and feel warmth. Why, there is music in the very winds that blow across my lovely land, the sun's Own darling!" he cried excitedly.

any

Then the tears would not be gainsayed and ran down the girl's pale cheeks, but for all that she never murmured. She had chosen her path and must walk along it cheerfully, dark as it was and beset with dangers. She could not feel joy at the life that was promised her, though to most girls the prospect would have been more than alluring. Crispi rented an old palace from the last of the Princes Stornello, where he was used to pass the summer. It ay embowered in sweet gardens and was guarded by the blue Albanian hills. He told Ruth long stories of the loveliness of the old house and of the glories of its sculpture gallery, but Ruth resolutely resolved to shut her cars against such allurements. Perhaps in her inmost heart the girl was conscious of a side to her nature which she tried hard to ignore-that love of the beautiful which lies embedded deep in all artistic natures, which is in itself the foundationstone of them all. But she wrestled against it as against an evil thing, and turned a face of marble toward all that Crispi promised. For all that the little foreigner did not despair; he had lived long, and knew woman.

II.

THE clear moonbeams were streaming down on the Palazzo Stornello, transmuting its white stone front into resplendent silver, bringing out the different tones, almost the different colors of the trees. The air was heavy with dews and the sweet scents of the vine and the rose. Some subtle, indefinable influence had crept in and made itself one with the night, the wondrous moonlit summer night. The moon itself, great, colorless, and imperturbable, seemed changelessly fixed in the blue sky, its white light so cruel and cold, so grandly heedless of the sorrows of the world upon which it looked with such unconcern. It was all so still too, only the chirp of the insects and the languid twittering of the birds, too much exhansted by the great heat of the day to burst forth into exultant strains. Later on the nightingale would come out, but not yet.

NEW SERIES.-VOL. LIII., No. 1.

Ruth, in her high white dress and with her serene pure profile-an old-world Diana strayed into the nineteenth century -was strolling up and down the old marble terrace that was now all broken down and held together by the clinging ivies. She was fighting with all her might and main against the soft seductions of the summer night, feeling at her heart that horrible throb of pain that presaged defeat. For conscience' sake, and yet. against her better judgment, she had come hither. And to what end? That she might only steep her soul in the sweet bitterness of enjoyment and give herself up to the idolizing of what was purely beautiful? She wrestled with herself, trying to bring before her the narrow little life that had satisfied her at Wellminster; she tried to lull her awakening senses. to sleep with memories of the perfectness. of her life of meditation in the old Cathedral city. Had she only come hither to satisfy her craving for the perfect thing with mere beauty? God forbid !

And as she stood and wrestled with herself there suddenly arose a sound So. strangely, so enchantingly beautiful that she felt her resolutions forsake her and her being quiver with delight. It was nothing else than the sound of a violin. being played in a masterly fashion; and. as the full notes streamed out into the summer night, Ruth felt a sudden longing: burn within her. A longing that she too. might give utterance to something beauti-ful, something that would stand midway between the pain and the joy of the world, and soothe the one while exalting: the other. Unconsciously she drew nearer to the room whence the sounds. issued. They drew her on like the singing of the Sirens in the old days; she stood fascinated and gazed at the player.. She had known who it was; a young friend of Crispi's, an amateur, who had come to stay at the Palazzo Stornello for a few days.

He had seemed to her an ordinary young man enough, dressed in the latest fashion, who had talked of nothing but stocks and investments to Crispi during dinner, and who had (so she thought) looked upon her as upon one of Crispi's latest, and perhaps not least profitable, itvestments. And yet he was making the air vibrate with this beautiful music of his, that was neither like the singing of

the angels nor the sound of the human voice, but something akin to both and infinitely moving. Ruth, fascinated beyond her powers of self-control, drew near to the window and looked in. Crispi was at the piano; his lean face looked leaner, his bright eyes more bright for his enthusiasm. He too, then, had been touched by the finger of the gods. Her own father was standing near the piano, his apathetic face troubled by a curious expression of searching for something that was clouding his memory, for a feeling perhaps that he had known in his young years and that was now dimly returning to him. The player himself stood erect playing composedly with no fire or enthusiasm, only with a look of conscious mastery over his instrument that was very fine

to see.

No one noticed Ruth. The music continued, now wild with pain, now calm with the quiet of a great despair; and when it ceased a sigh of suspense ended broke from the girl. She was standing at the window immovable as a statue, an exquisite rose-flush had stolen into her face, and the very severity of her profile had, as it were, relaxed.

Crispi looked at her. For him the interest had ceased with the music. He loved it, but with a strangely impersonal love; it was just art to him, to be admired for art's sake, not a soul's revela tion as it was to Ruth. For the first time in her life she had caught the sense of the place which the beautiful takes in the order of the world, and of the part it might be made to play. Crispi looked at her and understood. He saw now with one glance that he would triumph, and latterly he had despaired of Ruth's ever singing as he had dreamt she might sing. Her voice was always pure and beautiful; but it was the voice of a nun at prayer who had never known human pain and

sorrow.

"Ruth," he said, "play Signor Gemma's accompaniment.

when I am away from the piano.'

Ruth in her docile way walked to the piano. There was a little mist before those erstwhile untroubled eyes of hers that had been wont to look so straight into the heart of things holy. "Very well," she said softly, and was preparing to do his bidding when an untoward accident occurred.

The candles at the piano were flaring unsteadily, blown hither and thither by the gusts of a soft wind that had arisen with the deepening night. Ruth leaned over to get the music, and as she did so her light draperies were wafted across the flickering lights. Before any one had realized what had happened her dress was blazing-she uttered one wild cry-then stood as if turned to stone. In one instant Gemma had dashed his violin to the ground, had seized the panic-stricken girl and was crushing out the flames with his hands. It was bravely done. Crispi, who was no coward, rushed to the rescue with a rug which he flung around her. It was all the work of a moment, and Ruth was lying on the sofa, Gemina looking ruefully from his burned hands to his broken violin, Deland bending over his daughter in an agony of suspense.

She is not much burned," said Crispi quietly; "not at all hurt, I should say; not so much as you, Leonardo, but she was frightened, that is all."

Not quite all. It was not only the fear that made Kuth faint. She opened her eyes after a little and sought Gemina. You have saved my life, Signor," she said faintly. "I thank you with all my heart.'

When Ruth awoke the next morning.it was with the consciousness upon her that she had passed through some very important epoch of her life, though she could not exactly define in what its importance lay. She kept her room for three days, more because she did not like to face either Crispi or Gemma than because of any great pain. Indeed, she was wonderfully little burned. But on the fourth day Crispi sent for her for her usual singing-lesson. She sang nothing but a few exercises and a little of Handel; she was afraid to sing out lest Crispi should discover some new ring, some strange thrill which she knew had crept into her voice.

comment; perhaps he was afraid of frightening her.

At the end of her lesson she summoned up courage. How is Signor Gemma ?" she said shyly.

"His hands are badly burned," answered Crispi. "He will stay here until he is better.

"Then he cannot play ?" asked Kuth.

1

"Of course not," said Crispi almost crossly; "besides, his violin is cracked. It is a pity, too, it was valuable." Ruth looked up in dismay. "I am so sorry. It is my fault, you know," she said piteously; but Crispi only grunted. "His father was a banker and left him a fabulous amount of money. He can afford to lose even a good violin.' "But his poor hands!" protested

Ruth.

They are getting better," answered Crispi shortly. Perhaps he thought it was dangerous to show himself too sympathetic.

That afternoon Ruth betook herself to the mouldering old sculpture-gallery. The day was hot, oppressively hot, and the very shade of the trees in the garden seemed laden with heat. The sculpturegallery was comparatively cool, and the girl liked dreaming among the stained, chipped marbles, trying to picture to herself what the world was like in its young days when men made these images to worship them. She had taken a book but could not read. Still the same Kuth, easily impressed by the beauty of her surroundings, with firm convictions as to right and wrong, she was thinking drowsily of the feelings that had prompted men to fashion these once beautiful things. Was it a feeling of devotion which led them to represent their gods as lovely to look upon, or was it beauty alone they worshipped? And she, herself, was she not drifting to the same state? But she was not allowed to continue her musings. The heat had driven Leonardo Gemma to

take refuge in the gallery. He had wondered a little what had become of Ruth these three days, but had refrained from asking for her, although he had thought of her much. Her pure, cold, northern beauty had fascinated him. He had a sort of conviction that one day she too might catch fire; and he would fain be the one to kindle the flame.

Ruth gave a little cry when she first caught sight of Gemma's bandaged hands. "I am so grieved,' "she murmured; the words would not come quickly, but the tears rushed into her eyes. "Those hands of yours that made such beautiful music! To think of their being useless and all through my fault; and then you must have suffered so much pain! Can

It was not in the least your fault," answered Gemma quietly; "and it is not to every man that it is given to save the life of a great singer.

At least let me dress your wound for you; I have quite light cool fingers," begged Ruth impulsively.

Gemma smiled. 66 No; you would so hate the sight of them; you only like what is pleasant to look upon," answered Gemma. "But you can do very much for me; you can talk to me and tell me all about your home in England; and then you can sing to me, because I can no longer make music. And you must not think my hands will take long to heal; a week will see them better."'

Ruth flushed. She would fain have refused to sing, but could not.

"I will do what I can for you," she said. "You saved my life, and I owe it to you.

"You owe me nothing," answered Gemma, "but what you are willing to give. What were you inusing about when I entered the gallery?''

Ruth hesitated a little before she replied. Could he solve her doubts for her? She felt a sudden temptation to ask him, to confide in him.

"I was thinking," she said slowly, looking at him anxiously. "It is so difficult to put into words, but my thoughts were something like this. When I was at Wellminster, I would not sing or listen to music because I felt that it was in me to love what was beautiful for beauty's sake. Perhaps it was a narrow creed, but I seemed to love God less for loving beauty more. But now that I am here, all seems different to me. Things seem right that once I thought were wrong, and all things take a different place in the world to me. When you played the other night, it seemed the very perfection of loveliness in holiness. And yet what was there of God in it?"

"God created all things beautiful," answered Gemma. "A beautiful sound is the speech of God."

"Yes," protested Ruth; it for the service of man."

"but we use

"You forget," answered Gemma quietly, "that God created man with all

his faults and longings. They are human faults and longings; and the service of God is the service of man.

After that talk in the picture-gallery Ruth became much more at home with Gemma, indeed they soon grew to be inseparable companions, and Ruth, who had never known what it was to come in contact with any one who would think out problems for himself, soon grew to lean upon Gemma, to bring him all her doubts and longings. He satisfied her, and when a fortnight had passed she grew to dread his approaching departure more and more. She never stopped to ask herself why. She had never dreamed of loving, of being loved like most girls do. Her nature had been so steeped in the worship of things holy that human love was almost unknown to her.

She sang to Gemma constantly. Her voice had never given her so much pleasure as now when she used it to while away the time for him. For all that she knew, and perhaps he understood, that she never gave utterance to the fervor and yearnings within her. There was always something repressed about her singing, as if she feared to give voice to her own true self.

Gemma's hands were nearly well; indeed he could have used them had he been so minded, but he loved Ruth's care of him. Ruth herself watched their progress with a feeling of mingled fear and hope; she wanted them well for his sake, but she also wanted him to have an excuse - for staying on.

They were strolling in the gardens one afternoon. A kind of brooding heat, forerunner of a storm, made the air dense and heavy. The sky was darkened except when lurid clouds broke up the gloom. Both Ruth and Gemma felt the oppression of the atmosphere. "I am going to leave the day after to-morrow, sid Gemma shortly and suddenly, and fixed his eyes upon Ruth. The girl was so taken by surprise that she could not dissemble. "So soon, ," she faltered; and then she continued bravely, "I shall miss you."

"Will you?" he asked. "I am

glad."

They were both silent for a little after this. "You must play to me to-night," said Ruth. "I must hear you play once more before you go."

" he an

"If my new violin has come, swered. "Are you afraid of thunder, Ruth ?"

"I am not afraid of any storms," answered the girl. "On the contrary, I like to watch them."

They turned toward the house, not many moments too soon. The sullen thunder was growling, the lightning began to be more vivid, and great drops were falling from the sultry clouds. It was a terrible scene. Ruth, who had not imagined anything worse than an English thunderstorm, suddenly lost all control over her nerves. She nearly screamed when a flash lit up the gardens and was followed by a great crash of thunder. Nearer and nearer she drew to Gemma, feeling a security in bis proximity that she could not understand. At first he had talked lightly of many things to keep her thoughts from the scene, but gradually the awe of the elements came over him too and silently they watched it together, and in some strange fashion they both felt drawn more closely to each other by this very silence.

All the afternoon and part of the evening the storm raged. It was nearly ten before the ra'n ceased and the low muttered growl of the thunder died away in the distant hills. Crispi and Deland were still lingering over their wine; Ruth and Gemma were in the drawing room. The girl was still pale and a little agitated; Gemma was very silent.

"I am going to play to you to-night,' he said more softly than was his wont, and you shall sit still by the open window and take in the scent of the freshened grasses.

Ruth obeyed, and Gemma began to play. His hands had not lost their cunning. The sounds he drew from his violin were softer, more love-laden than ever. What it was he played Ruth did not know.

"What is it?" she asked breathlessly, when the last note had died away, and he answered very quietly not looking at her at all, "It is the most beautiful love-song in the world. 'It is Beethoven's Adelaide." 66 A song ?" she asked, and her face A song! Then I can sing

flushed.

it."

"If you will, I will play for you." Then Ruth took the music with her trembling hands and commenced. Of