and the perfume of the roses, a something
nameless and mystical steals over the poor
clerk, and swathes him about like the fumes
of opium. They are alone. The silence is
made deeper by that rhythmic unswelling
of sound. As the painter flushes the bare
wall into splendor, these emotions illumi-
nated his soul, and gave to it that high cour-
age that comes when men or women suddenly
realize that each life has its significance, --
their own lives no less than the lives of
others.

The man sitting there in the shadow in
that noisy train saw in his vision how the
lad arose and moved, like one under a spell,
toward the piano. He felt again the en-
chantment of the music-ridden quiet, of the
perfume, and the presence of the woman.

"Knowing you and speaking with you
have not made much difference with me,"
he whispers, drunk on the new wine of
passion, "for I have loved you since I saw
you first. And though it is so sweet to hear
you speak, your voice is no more beautiful
than I thought it would be. I have loved
you a long time, and I want to know --"

The broken man in the shadow remem-