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admiration of many； some women do not
hesitate to show you their preference。 To
a woman like Mildred that would be torture；
she could not and would not separate
the professional artist from the lover
or husband。''
And Diotti； remembering Mildred's
words； could not refute the old man's
statements。
‘‘If you had known her mother as I
did；'' continued the old man； realizing
his argument was making an impression
on the violinist； ‘‘you would see the
agony in store for the daughter if she
married a man such as you； a public servant；
a public favorite。''
‘‘I would live my life not to excite her
suspicions or jealousy；'' said the artist；
with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity。
‘‘Foolish fellow；'' retorted Sanders；
skeptically； ‘‘women imagine； they don't
reason。 A scented note unopened on
the dressing table can cause more
unhappiness to your wife than the loss of
his country to a king。 My advice to you
is： do not marry； but if you must； choose
one who is more interested in your
gastronomic felicity than in your marital
constancy。''
Diotti was silent。 He was pondering
the words of his host。 Instead of seeing
in Mildred a possibly jealous woman；
causing mental misery； she appeared a
vision of single…hearted devotion。 He
felt： ‘‘To be loved by such a one is
bliss beyond the dreams of this world。''
XII
A tipsy man is never interesting；
and Sanders in that condition
was no exception。 The old man arose
with some effort； walked toward the
window and； shading his eyes； looked
out。 The snow was drifting； swept
hither and thither by the cutting wind
that came through the streets in great
gusts。 Turning to the violinist； he said；
‘‘It's an awful night； better remain here
until morning。 You'll not find a cab； in
fact； I will not let you go while this
storm continues；'' and the old man
raised the window； thrusting his head
out for an instant。 As he did so the icy
blast that came in settled any doubt in
the young man's mind and he concluded
to stop over night。
It was nearly two o'clock； Sanders
showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything
was snug and secure。 After changing
his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers
and wrapping a dressing gown around
him； the old man stretched his legs
toward the fire and sipped his toddy。
‘‘He isn't a bad sort for a violinist；''
mused the old man； ‘‘if he were worth
a million； I believe I'd advise Wallace to
let him marry her。 A fiddler！ A million！
Sounds funny；'' and he laughed
shrilly。
He turned his head and his eyes
caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting
on the center table。 He staggered
from the chair and went toward it； opening
the lid softly； he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and
examined the strings intently。 ‘‘I am
right；'' he said； ‘‘it is wrapped with
hair； and no doubt from a woman's head。
Eureka！'' and the old man； happy in the
discovery that his surmises were correct；
returned to his chair and his toddy。
He sat looking into the fire。 The
violin had brought back memories of the
past and its dead。 He mumbled； as if
to the fire； ‘‘she loved me； she loved
my violin。 I was a devil； my violin
was a devil；'' and the shadows on the
wall swayed like accusing spirits。 He
buried his face in his hands and cried
piteously； ‘‘I was so young； too young
to know。'' He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down； when suddenly
‘‘Sanders； don't be a fool！''
He ambled toward the table again。
‘‘I wonder who made the violin？ He
would not tell me when I asked him to…
night； thank you for your pains； but I
will find out myself；'' and he took the
violin from the case。 Holding it with
the light slanting over it； he peered
inside； but found no inscription。 ‘‘No
maker's namestrange；'' he said。 He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently； ‘‘he must be asleep； he
won't hear me；'' and noiselessly he
closed the door。 ‘‘I guess if I play a
tune on it he won't know。''
He took the bow from its place in the
case and tightened it。 He listened
again。 ‘‘He is fast asleep；'' he whispered。
‘‘I'll play the song I always
played for heruntil；'' and the old man
repeated the words of the refrain：
‘‘Fair as a lily； joyous and free；
Light of the prairie home was she；
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie； the Prairie Flower。''
He sat again in the arm…chair and
placed the violin under his chin。
Tremulously he drew the bow across the
middle string； his bloodless fingers moving
slowly up and down。
The theme he played was the melody
to the verse he had just repeated； but the
expression was remorse。
***
Diotti sat upright in bed。 ‘‘I am
positive I heard a violin！'' he said； holding
one hand toward his head in an attitude
of listening。 He was wide awake。 The
drifting snow beat against the window
panes and the wind without shrieked like
a thousand demons of the night。 He
could sleep no more。 He arose and
hastily dressed。 The room was bitterly
cold； he was shivering。 He thought of
the crackling logs in the fire…place below。
He groped his way along the darkened
staircase。 As he opened the door leading
into the sitting…room the fitful gleam
of the dying embers cast a ghastly light
over the face of a corpse。
Diotti stood a moment； his eyes
transfixed with horror。 The violin and bow
still in the hands of the dead man told
him plainer than words what had happened。
He went toward the chair； took
the instrument from old Sanders' hands
and laid it on the table。 Then he knelt
beside the body； and placing his ear
close over the heart； listened for some
sign of life； but the old man was beyond
human aid。
He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa。 Gently he covered it with a robe。
The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him； and bitterly he blamed
himself。 The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its
force。 Often he had played on the strings
telling of pity； hope； love and joy； but
now； for the first time； he realized what
that fifth string meant。
‘‘I must give it back to its owner。''
‘‘If you do you can never regain it；''
whispered a voice within。
‘‘I do not need it；'' said the violinist；
almost audibly。
‘‘Perhaps not；'' said the voice； ‘‘but
if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it？ Without the violin you
would be helpless。''
‘‘Is it not possible that； in this old man's death；
all its fatal power has been expended？''
He went to the table and took the
instrument from its place。 ‘‘You won her
for me； you have brought happiness
and sunshine into my life。 No！ No！
I can not； will not give you up；'' then
placing the violi