After Many Days

Only a breken violin! There it lay in the mud, a worthless piece of wood, rudely snapped in twain, ith a few loóse fragmento of striug, soundless, voiceless; yet inside it. as reverently as though bending over something human that had died with a passionate burst of grief, asforsomedearly-lovedfriend, knelt a little laü of some thirteen summers. Out from the mud, with tender, caressiug touch, he liited up the broken fragmenta, his tears falling the while thiok and last, his slight framo convulsed with the sobs whioh wonld not De repressed. Ho made no outcry. but his face was white with the anguish oí despair. He had lost hia all- the friend to whom lie poured out all his woes; the companiou who, until now, never had failed liim, hia second, better, nobler self. , - Not many paces distant, on the aidewalk, stood the prepetrator of the outrage, a sort of undeflned remorse gnawing withia his breast. For mere bravador he had wienohed from the hands ofthelitüa musidan his instrument, and broken it acroas his knee, t.hrowing the pieces into the mid. Eealizing dimly that he had coramitted a coward's and a bully's act', he took from his pocket a small coin and tossed it toward tb e boy. 'Take mat, ne cneu, -auu m-uj.) juui . wnimpering. You've got no business to play your muslo in the public streetH. . You're a beggar and a nuisance.' But in an instant, with flauhing eyes, and head thrown proudly back, the lit;les tieet Arab had flung the rnoney iack. 'You think yoa can pay me thus! lie replied, in frenzied toties.' 'Ifis 11 who owe you a debt I yet will live to wipe out.' They stood one iuatant looking steadily into each other's eyea- one the senior of the other by some three or four years, tall and powerful, ciad in broadcloth imd (Inelinen- one a little, shrinking lad, his ragged clothes bespattered with the mud of the streets. At tlüs moment an open carriage rolled by, but the little girl seated witliin it had, with her quick eyes, discovpred somethiug amiss. Shehad seen the disdainful return of the rejected coin; she had hbard the boy 's words; she had marked the traces of passionate grief upon his face; and with a hasty coinmand to the coachman to stop," she called liim to her. 'What are you about to do, Miss 8elma?" questioned the lady witli her, her jjoverness. "Nothing naughty, dear Miss Irwin,' she replied. 'This poor boy- see, lais violin is broken. I am so sorry for him.' The lad slowly had approached the oarriage, in obedience to her oommaHd; butthere was no light in his face, no sagevness in nis step. 'ÏIow did this happen?' asked the! ittle giri. Cari looked up. Was this an angel who spoke to him ? He had never seen any one half so lovely. Her hair floatel about her shoiüders in a shower of Kold, and resting on it was a white bat. wifeh a long white plume drooping far down behind; her eyes were like two purple pansies; on her oheeks was the iUSil Í1 hilo tsuiliio, iicA jjjo hwo i3 the camation, though tliey quivered with her unspoken sympathy. The boy held up the broken pieces of his violin. 'It waa my all,' he paid. 'I shall etarve now, but I shall be glad of that, for I did not love it only thafc it brought me bread. I lovedit- I lovei it bec-auso it talked to me, and with it I was never lonely.' 'But can you not buy auother?' 'I have no money, miss. I can never make enoagb, since this la gone. I had hoped one day to buy something better than this, but now the day wiÖ never come!' A ahade of thoughtf ulness orept over the fair, sweet face. In thelitfele gloved hand ahe held a tiny purse, and withln it, tkree bright, glittering gold pieces shone. They were to parchase a coveted doll, her fond father's birthday gift. She turned hastily to her governess. 'Please, Misa Irwiia, do you think pa]ia would be disjleased if I do not buy ïny doll ? ïfo, no,- I know he would not.' Then, waiting for no reply, she pressod the purse into the boy's hand. 'Go buy your violin,' she said. 'Xor you must not return this as you returned the other money; but some dajv when yon are a great ínusician, you shall repay me. Wlio knows ? you may play at my wedding!' And with a Httle light laugh, as the uarriage started forward, the chilá with a wave of ljer hand, disappeareeL The boy stood mofionloss wrapped ira j a sort of ecstasy. Ho doubt that a veritableaugel had visitedhim, crossedhis nrind. Had he been dreaming? ?Io; for within his hand lay the dainty little purse. Opening it almost with reverence, the shining pieces of gold met his gaze; but something else aa well - a little piece of paateboard, and upon it written a name and address. The lad lifted it to his Ups. 'It is another debt I owe he said softly to himiself. ft T Ten years later, on a bright starlit night in January, the New York Academy of Music was fllled from pit to dome. ïhe great violinist, Ilerr Cari Seiberg was to appear. He was very young, not twenty-three, the critics said, and yet he liad reached the zenith of bis faam A great wave of applause greeted bim as he came forward to the centre of the stage. He was tall but slight, with large, dreamy eyes, and a mouth whose sensitiveness the blonde moustachecould not wholly hide. With a soft, caressing motion, he drew the bow across the strings. An almost human voice of exquisito rnelody seemed to respond. 'Che Uonse luid its breath to listen. In one of the lo wer proscenium boxes sat a young girl of nineteen. She wore 110 nat, and in her golden hair there gleamed a diamond star. iühe was beautiful with a rare loveliness. There was no fairer face in all that crowded assemblage. Behind ber, leaning on the back of her chair. ivas a young man whose gaze of rapt admiration uever withdrew itself- a man of superb height and breadth of form, and with eyes and hair dark hs the night - eyes which glowed with feeling as they dwelt upon her face, for the hope nearest Fairfax Farley's heart was to win this woman foj his wife. She turned toward him as the music died, with a quick indrawing of her breath. 'Teil me,' she whispered, 'was it not perfect ?' I did not hear it,,' he replisd. 'I was thinking but of you.' A vivía nusn, aimost oí Rnnoyance, rose to her brow; but at that moment, he young musician, recalled by the thundering plaudits of the people, renpneared. ir8 gaze now wandered over the íouse, tinally resting on that exquisito ace. He gave a smlden start. Of what, ol whom, did it rarnind him ? For i full moment their eyes met ; then, wíth a sudden inepiration, he drew his X)W, W hat was he playing ? It was a cadenee no man ever heard before. It seemed to teil an unknown story, if but one could have interpreted it. It began in a storm of grief, of pe3sionate despair, unreasoning, hopeless ; then followed a rift in the clouds, a sudden gleam of sumhine, then a heavy toiling of weary f eet, often torn aud bleeding, but wlth that rift of sunshine never quite hidden by the clouds overhead, no matter how dark or how dense they gathered; then carne a burst of triumph, a song of victory, a transport of passion, and then peace. THe last note seemed to have no ing. lts echoes hngerea in a meioaious hush, and rang in the peans of applause. The girl in the box tore the violeta from her breast and threw them at Herr Seiberg's feet. Flowers rained everywhere, but these only he stooped to gather. These he held so tightly that their crushed fragrance was wafted to his senses as he bowed bis adieux. The young musician waa the lion of the lisur. Fashionable ladiea sought him out. Invitations to fetes and receptior.s. and dinners, rained upon him. It was at one of these latter that he and Miss Lawrence met. 'I have pressecl your flowers,' he paid to her, in a low voice'My flowers?' ahe answered with a blush. Then she rememberad the violeta she had impulsively thrown at him. 'I had almost forgotten,' she added. 'What was it. Herr Seiberg, that you i played? It bas haunted me ever gince. 'Sonríe day,' he replied, 'I will teil you. Now you shall only know that yon were its inspiration.' Were hia worda presumption ? She could not answer; neither could she know the strange power which ever swayed her in this man's presence. 'You do not taach?' she said to him, i I i Dne day. 'iSo.' he fuiswered. 'But if you will be my pupil, it would be indeed a pleaaure.' 'And your terms?' His face flushed. 'I need no gold,' he responded. 'It is only that some dy you should hear my story.' 'I see nothing of yon, Selma,' said Fairfax Farley, during this time. 'Do you iorget that I have some claims?' 'íTo, I forget nothing,' she said. But there was sadness rather than happineas in her tone. 'Are you not ready to give me your answer, dear?' the man continued. 'Why do you hold me in suspense? Why, durling, may I not have the sweet promise thau I crave?' Did she shudder ? If so, it was but momentary, as the sweet young voice made answer. 'True,' it said, 'you have been very patiënt; but be so yet a little longer. Jiet me but be sure of myself. Tt is only for t'aia assurance, Fairfax, that I wait.' But undwneath Fairfax Farley's courteous caira was a seetbing maelsti-om, a burning jealoaay. Two weeks later, he waited outside Miss Laurence's home until Herr Seiberg stood on the stepa, in the moon light. He had been passing the evening with her. The two had dined at her table. Au hour bttfora Mr. Farley had made his adieux. 'Herr Seiberg!' Et was his voice, uddresiing the young musiciau. 'Yes,' he reapondad. lus surprise showing i u his tone. 'I have waited for you,' continue! ! Mr. Farley, 'in order to ask of you a I favor. It is a great favor, but money need be no object between ua. I am willing to pay yon any price, howcver fabulous; and although I know it is quite out of your line, 1 want very much that you should play one solo at my wedding.' [n the raoouliglit, Herr Seinerg's face showed a strange pallor. 'At your wedding! You are to be raarried? May 1 nquire to whom ?' 'Miss Lauranceis mybetrothed. Tlad yoa not heard?' Both in question and auswer rang il strained intensity; but the silence that f olio wed had in ita dwnbness more force than either. Then Herr Seiberg spoke. "To-morrow night, at this hour, you shall have rny decisión,' he said, and rapidly atrode away. Before noon, the day folloiring, Miss Laurence received Herr Seiberg's card. Penciled on it were these words: 'Pardon my intrusión, and grant me a half-hour's interview in which tobid you rareweii. Farewell! Thers was a certain spasmodic fluttering of her heart as she dimly realized its purport. What did this suddten departure portend? and why - why did it cause this faint sickness, which stole through every pulse and fiber of her haart. 'Show Herr Seiberg up,' she said to the servant; then, schooling herself to be calm, sat awaiting him. On the threshold of the room he paused. 'You asked me ouce, Miss Laurence, ' he began' 'the story my violin told on , the night we met, I answered you that some time you should know. Would it weary you to hear it now T She bowed assent, and motioned to a chair, but he stiü stood. 'I must go bacK many years. tie said, 'to the time when I was a little lad, ; footsore anti friendless. JTay, not friendless ! I had one friend - a poor little piece of wood, with strings across; it ; but I forgot that it was wood. In. my hours of loneliness and grief, and. sadness, I would talk to it, and then,, by idly drawing my bow aoross tbe strings, it would answer me. Ah, )io one would have believed it, but myself , but it pointed to me the future - it told me all that I might be. It whispered courage - itbreathed hope. Well, onedao, strolling througb the streets, touching its chords, asking uo alms - I never begged - a boy older than I, taller, stronger, a boy richly dressed, and with a gold cliain hanginj; at his vest, stopped anti mocked me. I ed on íilently. He folio wed me, and, in an unprepared moment, snatched my violin, and, snapping it aeróse nis knees, threw it in the filth and mud of the streot. I was stunned. The magnitude of my loss overwhelmed me. The surging tide of my despair closed in about my soul. I saw neither Fearth or sky - naught save the fbattered, voiceless wood. Then he who had wrought the wanton, wicked act, threw me a coin. It roused me f rom my stupor. I caught aud hurled it back. Xot thu migbt he pay the debt I owed to him. Xn that moment a carnage passed. Seated within was a beautif ui chlld - a little girl. She ordered the coachman to stop. Siie had seen something of what had happened. She inquired the oause of my distress. Then with tender pity in her eye, and a voice like mnsic, she put her puree into my hands, and bade me use its contents as I "would. 'Sorne day,' 'when you are a great musician, you shall repay me. Who knows ? you may play at my wedding.' The girl's head was bowed now. Her bosom rose and feil. Two sparkling tears glimmered on the lashes which swept her cheek. Like a dream it all came back to her ; like a visión, shesaw theboyish face uplifted to hers, thuough a mist of tears. Herr Seiberg strode to her side. He put his hand within his coat, and drew something forth. Instinctively she knew it to be the little purse. It has never lef t me,' he said hoarsely. '1 owe all that I am to you. The gulf between us is as wide now as then. T have never hoped to cross it. You are the heiresa of a rich man. I, to, have wealth, but that can not wipo out the past. Let me teil you, though, whafc I did. I took vour money and bought with it my violin. The man who sold it to me had a kindly face, and when I paid him for it, T asked ei Mm a faTor.' 'The money with which I purchase 1his, waslent me,' I said. 'I would like- oh so very muchl - to keep thie same gold. Will you lay it aside for three months, when I may redeem it ? I do not know that I can, but I -wlll save every penny I earn, if you wül but do this for me.' i The man smiled and consented. 'He marked the gold in my sight, and laid it away. Within the time I had regained possession of it. It is here, Miss Laurénce. It seems a, trifling suin now to both of us, but remem[ ber that it has made me all that I am. Yet its payment does not pay my debt. You said pefhaps I might play at your wedding, Command me. and 1 obey, even though I thus forsweai my second debt to the boy who, a second time, in my manhood, causes me the deepest misery my life has known.' He paused, aud held outstretched tward her the open puree. ïïis face was like marble; bis eyes shone with a wonderful flre. ■Of what ure you speakingV' she said gently. 'Whom ana I to marry?' 'Last night he told me yon we hia betrothed.' ■He ! Who?' 'Fairfax Farley.' 'It is not true. He has wislied it so, but I did not know my own heart, and asked that he should wait. I know it now. I know that it can never be. Cari, you spoke of thegulf between xis. Is it one that love will not bridge?' 'The next night Fairfax Farley and Herr Seibarg met. 'You have clecided?1 asked the form er. It ia impossible.' Cari replied. 'But since you so kindly have asked me to play at your wedding, may 1 not ask you to dance at mine?' 'Ah, you ave betrothed, tuen'i' Yes.; 'And to whoin?' Miss Laurence.' the young musician answered proudly. Two little words - a name aoon to be merged into another identity ; but their momentary utterauce had canceled !iis two-fold debt- redeemed liis boyhood's vow.