The New Bloomfield, Pa. times. (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1877-188?, 1881-10-11

~ IL auOlher ueot owe, ne shlu
softly to himself.
Ten years later, and on bright star
lit night In January, the New York
Academy of Music was filled from pit to
dome. The great vlolinist, Herr Carl
Seiberg was to appear He was very
young, not twenty-three, the critics said,
and yet he had reached the zenith of his
fame. A great wave of applause greeted
him as he came forward to the centre of
the stage. He was tall but slight, with
large, dreamy eyes, a mouth whose SEN
sitiveness the blonde mustache could not
wholly hide With soft, caressing mo-
ton, he drew the bow across the strings.
An almost human voice of exquisite
melody seemed to respond. The house
held its breath to listen.
In one of the lower proscenium boxes
sat young girl of ninetenn. She wore
no hat, and In her golden hair there
cleaned diamond star. She was beau
tlful with rare lovliness. There was
no fairer in all the crowded assemblage.
Behind her, leaning on the back of her
chair, was a young man whose gaze of
rapt admiration never withdrew itself
man of superb height and breadth of
form and with eyes and hair dark as the
night-eyes which glowed with feeling
as they dwelt upon her face, for the hope
nearest Fairfax Farley's heart was to
win this woman for his wife.
She turned toward him as the music
died, with quick indrawing of her
breath.
"Tell me-" she whispered, twas it not
perfect ?"
II did not hear it, he replied. II
was thinking but of YOU"
A vivid flush, almost of annoyance,
rose to her brow; but that moment the
young musician, recalled by the thun-
dering plaudits of the people, reappear-
ed. His gaze now wandered over the
house, finally resting on that one exqui-
site face. He gave sudden start. OF what,
of whom, did she remind him For
full moment their eyes met; then, with
a sudden inspiration, he drew his bow.
What was he playing 1t was cadence
no man had ever heard before. 1t SEEM
ed to tell an unknown story, if but one
could have interpreted it. 1t began in a
storm of grief, of passionate anguish and
despair, unreasoning, hopeless, then fol-
lowed a lull, a rift in the clouds, a sud-
den gleam of sunshine, heavy toiling
of weary feet, often torn and bleeding,
but with that rift of sunshine never quite
hidden by the clouds overhead no mat
ter how dark or dense they gathered;
then came burst of triumph, song of
victory, a transport of passion, and then
peace.
The last note seemed to have no end
ing. Its echoes fingered in a melodious
hush, and rang in the p@ans of APP
plause.
The girl in the box tore the vio,ets
from her breast, and threw them at Sci.
berg's feet. Flowers rained everywhere,
but these only he stopped to gather.
These he held SO tightly that their
crushed fragrance was waited to his
senses as he bowed his adieux.
The young musician was the lion of
the hour. Fashionable ladies sought
him out. Invitations to .fetes, and re-
ceptions, and dinners, rained upon him.
1t was at one of these latter that he and
Miss Laurence met.
II have pressed your flowers" he said
to her, in low voice.
my flowers ?" she answered, with
blush.
Then she remembered the violets she
so impulsively had thrown him.
81 had almost forgotten" she added.
"What was it, Herr Seiberg, that you
played9 1t has haunted me every day
since"
"Some day." he replied, "I will tell
you. Now you shall know only that
you were its inspiration"
Were his words Presumption ? She
could not answer; neither could she
know the strange power which ever
swayed her in this mans presence.
"You do not teach ?" she said to him.
one day.
mo-" he answered "But If you will
be my pupil, it would be indeed pleas
ure."
"And your terms ?"
His face flushed.
II need no gold" he respond. "It is
only that some day you should hear my
story.
y y