‘‘Try　that；''　handing　a　glass　of　the
  toddy　to　Diotti；　‘‘you　will　find　it　all
  right；''　and　the　old　man　drew　an　arm…
  chair　toward　the　fire…place；　smacking　his
  lips　in　anticipation。
  The　violinist　placed　his　chair　closer　to
  the　fire　and　sipped　the　drink。
  ‘‘Your　country　is　noted　for　its　beautiful　women？''
  ‘‘We　have　exquisite　types　of　femininity
  in　Tuscany；''　said　the　young　man；
  with　patriotic　ardor。
  ‘‘Any　as　fine　looking　asasaswell；
  say　the　young　lady　we　dined　with　to…night？''
  ‘‘Miss　Wallace？''　queried　the　Tuscan。
  ‘‘Yes；　Miss　Wallace；''　this　rather　impatiently。
  ‘‘She　is　very　beautiful；''　said　Diotti；
  with　solemn　admiration。
  ‘‘Have　you　ever　seen　any　one　prettier？''
  questioned　the　old　man；　after　a
  second　prolonged　sip。
  ‘‘I　have　no　desire　to　see　any　one
  more　beautiful；''　said　the　violinist；　feeling
  that　the　other　was　trying　to　draw
  him　out；　and　determined　not　to　yield。
  ‘‘You　will　pardon　the　inquisitiveness
  of　an　old　man；　but　are　not　you　musicians
  a　most　impressionable　lot？''
  ‘‘We　are　human；''　answered　the　violinist。
  ‘‘I　imagined　you　were　like　sailors　and
  had　a　sweetheart　in　every　port。''
  ‘‘That　would　be　a　delightful　prospect
  to　one　having　polygamous　aspirations；
  but　for　myself；　one　sweetheart　is　enough；''
  laughingly　said　the　musician。
  ‘‘Only　one！　Well；　here's　to　her！
  With　this　nectar　fit　for　the　gods　and
  goddesses　of　Olympus；　let　us　drink　to　her；''
  said　old　Sanders；　with　convivial　dignity；
  his　glass　raised　on　high。　‘‘Here's　wishing
  health　and　happiness　to　the　dreamy…
  eyed　Tuscan　beauty；　whom　you　love　and
  who　loves　you。''
  ‘‘Stop！''　said　Diotti；　‘‘we　will　drink
  to　the　first　part　of　that　toast；''　and　holding
  his　glass　against　that　of　his　bibulous
  host；　continued：　‘‘To　the　dreamy…eyed
  women　of　my　country；　exacting　of
  their　lovers；　obedient　to　their　parents
  and　loyal　to　their　husbands；''　and　his
  voice　rose　in　sonorous　rhythm　with　the
  words。
  ‘‘Now　for　the　rest　of　the　toast；　to　the
  one　you　love　and　who　loves　you；''　came
  from　Sanders。
  ‘‘To　the　one　I　love　and　who　loves　me；
  God　bless　her！''　fervently　cried　the　guest。
  ‘‘Is　she　a　Tuscan？''　asked　old　Sanders　slyly。
  ‘‘She　is　an　angel！''　impetuously　answered
  the　violinist。
  ‘‘Then　she　is　an　American！''　said　the
  old　man　gallantly。
  ‘‘She　is　an　American；''　repeated
  Diotti；　forgetting　himself　for　the　instant。
  ‘‘Let　me　see　if　I　can　guess　her
  name；''　said　old　Sanders。　‘‘It'sit's
  Mildred　Wallace！''　and　his　manner
  suggested　a　child　solving　a　riddle。
  The　violinist；　about　to　speak；　checked
  himself　and　remained　silent。
  ‘‘I　sincerely　pity　Mildred　if　ever　she
  falls　in　love；''　abstractedly　continued
  the　host　while　filling　another　glass。
  ‘‘Pray　why？''　was　anxiously　asked。
  The　old　man　shifted　his　position　and
  assumed　a　confidential　tone　and　attitude：
  ‘‘Signor　Diotti；　jealousy　is　a　more
  universal　passion　than　love　itself。
  Environment　may　develop　our　character；
  influence　our　tastes　and　even　soften　our
  features；　but　heredity　determines　the
  intensity　of　the　two　leading　passions；　love
  and　jealousy。　Mildred's　mother　was　a
  beautiful　woman；　but　consumed　with　an
  overpowering　jealousy　of　her　husband。
  It　was　because　she　loved　him。　The
  body…guard　of　jealousyenvy；　malice
  and　hatredwere　not　in　her　composition。
  When　Mildred　was　a　child　of
  twelve　I　have　seen　her　mother　suffer
  the　keenest　anguish　because　Mr。　Wallace
  fondled　the　child。　She　thought　the
  child　had　robbed　her　of　her　husband's
  love。''
  ‘‘Such　a　woman　as　Miss　Wallace
  would　command　the　entire　love　and
  admiration　of　her　husband　at　all　times；''
  said　the　artist。
  ‘‘If　she　should　marry　a　man　she
  simply　likes；　her　chances　for　happiness
  would　be　normal。''
  ‘‘In　what　manner？''　asked　the　lover。
  ‘‘Because　she　would　be　little
  concerned　about　him　or　his　actions。''
  ‘‘Then　you　believe；''　said　the
  musician；　‘‘that　the　man　who　loves　her　and
  whom　she　loves　should　give　her　up
  because　her　chances　of　happiness　would　be
  greater　away　from　him　than　with　him？''
  ‘‘That　would　be　an　unselfish　love；''
  said　the　elder。
  ‘‘Suppose　they　have　declared　their
  passion？''　asked　Diotti。
  ‘‘A　parting　before　doubt　and　jealousy
  had　entered　her　mind　would　let　the　image
  of　her　sacrificing　lover　live　within
  her　soul　as　a　tender　and　lasting　memory；
  he　always　would　be　her　ideal；''　and　the
  accent　old　Sanders　placed　on　ALWAYS　left
  no　doubt　of　his　belief。
  ‘‘Why　should　doubt　and　jealousy　enter
  her　life？''　said　the　violinist；　falling
  into　the　personal　character　of　the　discussion
  despite　himself。
  ‘‘My　dear　sir；　from　what　I　observed
  to…night；　she　loves　you。　You　are　a　dan…
  gerous　man　for　a　jealous　woman　to　love。
  You　are　not　a　cloistered　monk；　you　are
  a　man　before　the　public；　you　win　the
  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