nerves, "you have fire enough in you to make
an admirable musician. But your fingers, as
yet, refuse to carry out your fine intentions.
They only need discipline."

"And do you suppose you can discipline
them? They are a fearfully obstinate set, and
cause me infinite mortification."

"Would you allow me to look at your hand?"

She raised her right hand, and with a sort of
impulsive heedlessness let it drop into his. An
exclamation of surprise escaped him.

`{`}If you will pardon me," he said, "it is a
superb hand--a hand capable of performing mira-
cles--musical miracles I mean. Only look here"
--(and he drew the fore and second fingers apart)
--"so firmly set in the joint and still so flexible.
I doubt if Liszt himself can boast a finer row
of fingers. Your hands will surely not prevent
you from becoming a second Von Bulow, which to
my mind means a good deal more than a second Liszt."

"Thank you, that is quite enough," she
exclaimed, with an incredulous laugh; "you have
done bravely. That at all events throws the
whole burden of responsibility upon myself, if
I do not become a second somebody. I shall be