arts and coquettish innuendoes, then again naïve, unthinking and almost boyishly blunt and direct; in a word, one of those miraculous New York girls whom abstractly one may disapprove of, but in the concrete must abjectly adore. This easy predominance of the masculine heart over the masculine reason in the presence of an impressive woman, has been the motif of a thousand tragedies in times past, and will inspire a thousand more in times to come.     

       Halfdan sat down at the grand piano and played Chopin’s Nocturne in G major, flinging out that elaborate filigree of sound with an impetuosity       and superb ABANDON which caused the ladies to exchange astonished glances behind his back. The transitions from the light and ethereal texture of melody to the simple, more concrete theme, which he rendered with delicate shadings of articulation, were sufficiently startling to impress even a less cultivated ear than that of Edith Van Kirk, who had, indeed, exhausted whatever musical resources New York has to offer. And she was most profoundly impressed. As he glided over the last pianissimo notes toward the two concluding chords (an ending so characteristic of Chopin)       she rose and hurried to his side with a heedless eagerness, which was more       eloquent than emphatic words of praise.     

       “Won’t you please repeat this passage?” she said, humming the air with soft modulations; “I have always regarded the monotonous repetition of this strain” (and she indicated it lightly by a few touches of the keys)       “as rather a blemish of an otherwise perfect composition. But as you play it, it is anything but monotonous. You put into this single phrase a more intense meaning and a greater variety of thought than I ever suspected it was capable of expressing.”      

       “It is my favorite composition,” answered he, modestly. “I have bestowed more thought upon it than upon anything I have ever played, unless perhaps it be the one in G minor, which, with all its difference of mood and phraseology, expresses an essentially kindred thought.”      

       “My dear Mr. Birch,” exclaimed Mrs. Van Kirk, whom his skillful employment of technical terms (in spite of his indifferent accent) had impressed even more than his rendering of the music,—“you are a comsummate{sic}       artist, and we shall deem it a great privilege if you will undertake to instruct our child. I have listened to you with profound satisfaction.” 

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