``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.''