I am no critic; but I would try to be impartial: love makes even the ignorant wise, and I shall see the beauty which I know is in it."

"I put you there, or tried; so truth and beauty should be in it. Some time you shall hear it, but not now. I could not read it to-night, perhaps never; it is such a poor, pale shadow of the thing I meant it to be."

"Let me read it," said a voice behind them; and Helwyze stood upon the threshold, wearing his most benignant aspect.

"You?" ejaculated Canaris; while Gladys shrunk a little, as if the proposition did not please her.

"Why not? Young poets never read their own verses well; yet what could be more soothing to the most timorous or vain than to hear them read by an admiring and sympathetic friend? Come, let me have my reward, as well as Gladys;" and Helwyze laid his hand upon the unscattered pile of manuscript.

"A penance, rather. It is so blurred, so rough, you could not read it; then the fatigue"--began Canaris, pleased, yet reluctant still.

"I can read any thing, make rough places smooth, and not tire, for I have a great interest in this story. He has shown me some of it, and it is good."

Helwyze spoke to Gladys, and his last words conquered her reluctance, whetted her curiosity; he looked at Canaris, and his glance inspired hope, his offer tempted, for his voice could make music of any thing, his praise would be both valuable and cheering.

"Let him, Felix, since he is so kind, I so impatient that I do not want to wait;" and Gladys went to gather up the leaves, which had flown wildly about the room.

"Leave those, I will sort them while you begin. The first part is all here. I am sick of it, and so will you be, before you are through. Go, love, or I may revoke permission, and make the bonfire yet."

Canaris laughed as he waved her away; and Gladys, seeing that the cloud had lifted, willingly obeyed, lingering only to give a touch to the dainty luncheon, which was none the worse for being cold.

"Dear, eat and drink, then my feast will be the sweeter."

"I will; I'll eat and drink stupendously when you are gone; I wish you bon appetit," he said, filling the glass, and smiling as he drank.

Contented now, Gladys hurried away, to find Helwyze already seated by the study-table, with the manuscript laid open before him. He looked up, wearing an expression of such pleasurable excitement, that it augured well for what was coming, and she slipped into the chair beside the one set ready for Canaris on the opposite side of the hearth, still hoping he would come and take it. Helwyze began, and soon she forgot every thing--carried away by the smoothly flowing current of the story which he read so well. A metrical romance, such as many a lover might have imagined in the first inspiration of the great passion, but few could have painted with such skill. A very human story, but all the truer and sweeter for that fact. The men and women in it were full of vitality and color; their faces spoke, hearts beat, words glowed; and they seemed to live before the listener's eye, as if endowed with eloquent flesh and blood.

Gladys forgot their creator utterly, but Helwyze did not; and even while reading on with steadily increasing effect, glanced now and then towards that inner room, where, after a moment of unnecessary bustle, perfect silence reigned. Presently a shadow flickered on the ceiling, a shadow bent as if listening eagerly, though not a sound betrayed its approach as it seemed to glide and vanish behind the tall screen which stood before the door. Gladys saw nothing, her face being intent upon the reader, her thoughts absorbed in following the heart-history of the woman in whom she could not help finding a likeness to herself.

Helwyze saw the shadow, however, and laughed inwardly, as if to see the singer irresistibly drawn by his own music. But no visible smile betrayed this knowledge; and the tale went on with deepening power and pathos, till at its most passionate point he paused.

"Go on; oh, pray go on!" cried Gladys, breathlessly.

"Are you not tired of it?" asked Helwyze, with a keen look.

"No, no! You are? Then let me read."

"Not I; but there is no more here. Ask Felix if we may go on."

"I must! I will! Where is he?" and Gladys hurried round the screen, to find Canaris flung down anyway upon a seat, looking almost as excited as herself.

"Ah," she cried, delightedly, "you could not keep away! You know that it is good, and you are glad and proud, although you will not own it."

"Am I? Are you?" he asked, reading the answer in her face, before she could whisper, with the look of mingled awe and adoration which she always wore when speaking of him as a poet--

"Never can I tell you what I feel. It almost frightens me to find how well you know me and yourself, and other hearts like ours. What gives you this wonderful power, and shows you how to use it?"

"Don't praise it too much, or I shall wish I had destroyed, instead of re-sorting, the second part for you to hear." Canaris spoke almost roughly, and rose, as if about to go and do it now. But Gladys caught his hand, saying gayly, as she drew him out into the fire-light with persuasive energy--

"That you shall never do; but come and enjoy it with us. You need not be so modest, for you know you like it. Now I am perfectly happy."

She looked so, as she saw her husband sink into the tall-backed chair, and took her place beside him, laughing at the almost comic mixture of sternness, resignation, and impatience betrayed by his set lips, silent acquiescence, and excited eyes.

"Now we are ready;" and Gladys folded her hands with the rapturous contentment of a child at its first fairy spectacle.

"All but the story. I will fetch it;" and Helwyze stepped quickly behind the screen before either could stir.

Gladys half rose, but Canaris drew her down again, whispering, in an almost resentful tone--

"Let him, if he will; you wait on him too much. I put the papers in order; he will read them easily enough."

"Nay, do not be angry, dear; he does it to please me, and surely no one could read it better. I know you would feel too much to do it well," she answered, her hand in his, with its most soothing touch.

There was no time for more. Helwyze returned, and, after a hasty resettling of the manuscript, read on, without pausing, to the story's end, as if unconscious of fatigue, and bent on doing justice to the power of the protégé whose success was his benefactor's best reward. At first, Gladys glanced at her husband from time to time; but presently the living man beside her grew less real than that other, who, despite a new name and country, strange surroundings, and far different circumstances, was so unmistakably the same, that she could not help feeling and following his fate to its close, with an interest almost as intense as if, in very truth, she saw Canaris going to his end. Her interest in the woman lessened, and was lost in her eagerness to have the hero worthy of the love she gave, the honor others felt for him; and, when the romance brought him to defeat and death, she was so wrought upon by this illusion, that she fell into a passion of sudden tears, weeping as she had never wept before.

Felix sat motionless, his hand over his eyes, lips closely folded, lest they should betray too much emotion; the irresistible conviction that it was good, strengthening every instant, till he felt only the fascination and excitement of an hour, which foretold others even more delicious. When the tale ended, the melodious voice grew silent, and nothing was heard but the eloquent sobbing of a woman. Words seemed unnecessary, and none were uttered for several minutes, then Helwyze asked briefly--

"Shall we burn it?"

As briefly Canaris answered "No;" and Gladys, quickly recovering the self-control so seldom lost, looked up with "a face, clear shining after rain," as she said in the emphatic tone of deepest feeling--

"It would be like burning a live thing.