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Why do you give me that name? You are not French, and yet you always use the term when you address me."

It was the truth; for he had so frequently and positively identified her with the name bestowed upon her by the artist that the term "Mam'selle" arose naturally to his lips whenever he had occasion to address her. But any other name, even her own, would have seemed foreign to her after that, although she would not have understood why. Holmes, somewhat diffidently, enlightened her on that point. Another merry laugh pealed forth, and her cheeks colored a trifle, as if she understood the compliment implied.

"You were saying- -"he suggested, in order to relieve her of evident embarrassment.

for me.

"If you have a moment to spare, I should like to have you put up a shelf I have the shelf, brackets, and screws, and have borrowed a hammer and screw-driver. I don't care to try it, for women are so awkward, you know. So, if I do not bother you

He silenced her with a gesture, and she ushered him into her room; a cosey little apartment, furnished in a modest and attractive manner, and as pretty as a girl's hands and apparently limited means could make it. Her violin case was conspicuous, especially in the visitor's observant eyes, which comprehended everything; and above the little, old-fashioned bureau hung two portraits, possibly those of her parents. A geranium bloomed in the window, and a little old rocking-chair looked all the more inviting for a bit of ribbon here and there. Indeed, Holmes forgot himself as thoroughly as if he had been lured to enchanted ground, and stammered awkwardly when a slight cough recalled him to himself.

To put up the shelf was the work of a moment only, and then Holmes stilled her protestations of thanks by telling her, hesitatingly, that an air from her violin would repay him a hundred fold.

She smiled in a pleased, grateful fashion, and took the instrument from its well-worn case. Watching every movement closely, he noted the care with which she handled the treasure, like a young mother picking up her

first-born; how tenderly she touched the keys, as if they were all in all to her; how caressingly she placed the instrument in position, as if she loved to feel its touch; how gently she dropped her fair, rounded chin upon it.

The bow, drawn with a graceful. sweep, moved slowly across the puretoned strings, and Holmes's favorite selection, the nocturne which had crept into his heart and life to rouse him from the lethargy of despair, thrilled him from head to foot. As she played so divinely, her trim, graceful, black-robed figure unconsciously swayed lightly to and fro with scarcely perceptible motion; her fringed eyelids drooped, and she seemed to drift into a trance-like state; the noises in the hall ceased by degrees, until there was silence, and dirty children, with wondering eyes and open mouths, stole up to listen to melody such as they had never heard before; doors opened softly, and men with pipes in their mouths and women with dishcloths in their hands or babies in their arms stood upon well-worn thresholds; the woman with whom Mam'selle lodged left her work, as the others had done, and moved on tiptoe toward the opening between the two rooms and watched the player with glistening eyes. The entire place vibrated in unison with the melody; it was irresistible. Never before had she played so well; never had she thrown so much of her soul into the responsive strings.

The music suddenly ceased, the spell broke, and the girl, unmindful of the others, looked at him peculiarly, half questioningly.

Holmes drew a long breath and then sighed heavily.

'Do you wonder now that we call you Mam'selle Paganini?" he asked, simply.

You flatter me, out of kindness and courtesy," she said, shaking her head.

"Not at all. My opinion is not worth much, but Harley, who has spent years in Paris, says that you are worthy of the Conservatoire."

"Who is this Harley?" she demanded, as she laid aside the violin.

"The artist who rechristened you." "I am much indebted to Monsieur Harley-and to you," she replied, gen

tly, yet with a doubtful shake of her head.

By and by, as their acquaintance progressed, he learned that her name was Estelle Diment, and that she was the only child of a musician. She often said, with tears in her great dark eyes, that her father would have been one of the foremost violinists of the world had his talents received the recognition which was their due. "He was master of the instrument," she said, "but he had no money, no influence, no powerful friends. He never learned the art and value of making friends, you see, and so he was left in obscurity, as so many worthy ones have been. He was a composer, too.

Listen. This is one of his compositions." Then. taking up her violin, she played one of the most beautiful creations it had ever been Holmes's good fortune to hear-a quaint, touching bit of melody, full of light and shade.

Her mother had died ten years be

Fellow Lodger.

fore, when Estelle was seven years old, and her father, who was a fine scholar as well as a skilled musician, had taken upon himself the task of educating and rearing her. This he had done to the best of his ability; but when she was fifteen he passed away, leaving her utterly alone in the world, and she had supported herself by sewing during the day and giving violin lessons in the evening to a few humble scholars. And yet, withal, there was nothing of harshness in the lines of her face, nothing of defiance or of recklessness in her eye, nothing of impatience in her manner. Holmes, his interest in her increasing every moment, pitied her profoundly, because it was sad that such a tender flower should have to blossom among the stones of the broad highway; but he admired her, nevertheless, for she was self-reliant and womanly beyond her years, and did not shrink from facing the world. Mam'selle Paganini herself, in truth, strengthened the potent effect of her music upon him; for when he thought of her and what she had undergone, it made him thoroughly ashamed to think that he had bent his head in submission before that which a girl had boldly, smilingly faced. Even the artist across the hall eventually came within the range of the spell, and confidentially announced to Holmes, during a surprisingly extended season of sobriety, that he was at work upon a canvas from which he anticipated great things.

These little confidences between Holmes and the violiniste, so frankly and ingenuously given, served to strengthen their friendship, and he grew to look forward to the occasional chats, which were always participated in by her landlady, who was one of those helpless, hopeless creatures met with now and then in like circumstances-a refined, educated woman "who has seen better days." Of him

self, Mam'selle-he could call her by no other name-knew nothing, until one day, when, happening to buy a Sunday newspaper for the sake of the advertisements it contained, she discovered in an out-of-the-way corner a few verses with his name appended. Her woman's wit and finesse extracted the truth from him, and almost before he knew it she was in possession of all his literary plans and aware of the hopes, fears, and aspirations which alternately have varying effect upon the man who sits, pen in hand, and makes an honest. effort to write something which may benefit some reader, and live to benefit the readers that are to come. He chided himself afterward for being so absurdly communicative, but, God bless her! she saw merit in the fugitive rhymes, or said so, and her encouraging words spurred him on.

II.

TAKING everything into consideration-and everything should be where two young people are concerned-it was but natural that there should be a serious outcome. It is always the case. A man cast into the society of a fright, and by circumstances, ordinary or remarkable, made to assist in the development of an affinity through condition or occupation, will in time learn to admire, perhaps love, the woman concerned. The result is inevitable, and emphasized when the woman is pretty. Holmes was no exception, and soon found that the fragile girl was by degrees becoming a part of his life-a necessity. He tried as best he could, even at the sacrifice of something within him, to crowd back the feeling and kill the influence gradually obtaining possession of him, but to no purpose. Love knows no law, it is true, but he felt that his, being dishonorable, had no right to exist; perhaps he should have denominated it discreditable, for the reason that it sprang up without warrant and with no hope of fruition, either present or prospective. Much as he loved Mam'selle-and supposing, even, that she returned the passion which thrilled him at her touch and at the sound of her voice-he could not consistently speak; for what had he to

"Wait!"

offer a woman in return for the gift of herself? One half of a garret, his troubles, and a slender, uncertain income. The garret might serve, if she were willing, since there were some who had been happy in squalor; even the troubles might be shared after a fashion. wives being supposed to divide the burdens of their husbands; but no stretch of the imagination, however hopeful the man, could make the income cover the wants of more than one. He thought it all over in a dispassionate way, and brought himself to look at the matter as rationally and philosophically as young men in love ever look at anything of the kind, until he decided finally to hold his peace, and subject his heart to a rule of iron.

It was not easy, but he felt that he was acting honorably. Still, he could not crush his feelings entirely. They found utterance, as it often happens, in some rhymes; and they, when published, fell, through the medium of fate, into the hands of the one person from whose gaze he would have kept them. The man who has a touch of poetry in his soul and possesses the ability to express his thoughts rhythmically, necessarily infuses his life into his rhymes and stamps them with the impress of his moods. They serve as a barometer

whereby the observant reader may glean some knowledge of the writer and the influences that surround him. When the poet loves, his tenderest thoughts clothe the image of his beloved; when he is melancholy, he expresses the refinement of pessimism, and grasps the hand from which others shrink-the hand of death; when he is happy, he sings of the birds and flowers in lighter measure; when he becomes a champion, he aids the cause for which he battles. Reviled, ridiculed, always under-estimated by the great mass, he knows only the appreciation of one or two; but always, if he has the sacred fire, he is a poet, and always he labors to make men and women better and lift them above the level of gold-diggers. If his true worth is ever recognized it is by a woman, some woman of heart and soul; for woman is a better being than man, unless she perverts herself.

"Do poets and writers generally deal with their own experiences?" Mam'selle asked abruptly, one evening.

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"Very often, I think," Holmes replied, wondering at the query. Mere mechanical writers do not, of course; but those who write from the heart and for the heart are influenced by the occurrences of their daily lives. To some, each moment has its inspiration, each incident its suggestion. A wellknown author said not long ago that the works of such writers, if the truth were known, are autobiographical."

And do poets believe what they write?" she asked.

This direct question caused him to stare a little.

"How can a rhymester answer for poets?" he said, laughing at the inquiry. What curious questions! What are you trying to get at?"

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"Your last published verses-I am at a loss to understand them," she replied. "They are so odd, so hopeless, as all your poems seem to be. In them you picture a man who loves a woman, madly, passionately, if one may judge by the fire you have thrown into the lines, and yet he confesses that he cannot in honor go to her and tell her of his love. How strange! If she is not the wife of another, where is the dishonor? How can an honest man, with

to”

"I am not too young to understand," she retorted, proudly. "I am a woman, and a woman understands such things by instinct. Tell me, when is an honest lover dishonorable if he tells his love?"

"When he has nothing to giveaside from his heart and the great love it contains-but a share in a miserable den on the top story of a dirty tenement," he replied, meeting her glance steadily; "when he can offer her nothing save transitory hopes and illusive aspirations; when he can dower the woman with nothing but poverty. It would be dishonorable in him, unjust to her, cruel to both."

The puzzled look left her face, which changed color as he saw her head droop, and her under lip quivered a little as the quaint little mantel clock ticked on. She comprehended-of that he was certain; for his words were plain, and his face had ever been the betrayer of his inmost thoughts. Neither spoke just then; but after a long, long silence she said, slowly and gently, her dark eyes kindling and averted :

"I differ with you. It would not be dishonorable. It might not be wise, but it could not be dishonorable, for the pure, unselfish love of a good man can never be anything but the highest compliment which may be paid to a woman. It is a credit to the lover. But for him to keep silent under such circumstances is noble and selfsacrificing, and shows that his love is higher and better than that of most. The woman who inspires such love can afford to treasure the man's image if she finds that his heart, and such a heart, is hers."

His heart leaped within him, for the words expressed everything that he would have had her say. They were both a prayer and a promise, in the utterance