afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and
return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you
gave me last evening. Music, such as yours,
is indeed the voice of heaven. Sincerely,

Mildred Wallace.


The messenger returned with this reply:


My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day.

Gratefully,
Angelo Diotti.


He watched the hour drag from eleven
to twelve, then counted the minutes to
one, and from that time until he left the
hotel each second was tabulated in his
mind. Arriving at her residence, he
was ushered into the drawing-room. It
was fragrant with the perfume of violets,
and he stood gazing at her portrait
expectant of her coming.

Dressed in simple white, entrancing
in her youthful freshness, she entered,
her face glowing with happiness, her