has to offer. And she was most profoundly
impressed. As he glided over the last pianissimo
notes toward the two concluding chords (an ending
so characteristic of Chopin) she rose and hurried
to his side with a heedless eagerness, which was
more eloquent than emphatic words of praise.

"Won't you please repeat this passage?" she
said, humming the air with soft modulations;
"I have always regarded the monotonous repetition
of this strain" (and she indicated it lightly
by a few touches of the keys) "as rather a
blemish of an otherwise perfect composition.
But as you play it, it is anything but monotonous.
You put into this single phrase a more intense
meaning and a greater variety of thought than
I ever suspected it was capable of expressing."

"It is my favorite composition," answered he,
modestly. "I have bestowed more thought
upon it than upon anything I have ever played,
unless perhaps it be the one in G minor, which,
with all its difference of mood and phraseology,
expresses an essentially kindred thought."

"My dear Mr. Birch," exclaimed Mrs. Van
Kirk, whom his skillful employment of technical
terms (in spite of his indifferent accent) had
impressed even more than his rendering of the
music,--"you are a comsummate{sic} artist, and