The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1899-02-18

SelI, wire OF poilSned silver, wire
that might turn and twist in ones flesh
forever. yet never cause mortal wound
only an intlnftude Of pain. But that
| Of yesterday was the broad blade that
kills at one stroke@
And again-a4dtshsoadened and deep
ened. and fadNdSl Re moonbeam.
away-"that ofYeaerday." he MUIR
INJURED, was reHa6S alton; with its bat
tie. its victory, it sublime triumph,
Its transient peacs to-day's is resig-
nation; submit7anc e ichhasnaught
of'battle, Of victory, Of triumph, but
only pain. To-day's il the end. an end
that has no end.'
But as he lay there, hands clasped
behind his tired head, lips parted In
smile-a smile unlike his, for 1t had
naught Of scorn in it-there broke upon
the silence the opening bars Of little
prelude, dninty and sweet in itself, but
the manner of Its playing veritabls
triumph in mediocrity. 1t walled and
cried laborfously above the Poets head,
and echoeda bove the window. 1t broke
into painful snatches and Indifferent
rhythm. Z
The Poet spnng to his feet with an
exclamation Of fmpatience. ITO spoil
that with this!" he cried. 20, how can
she?" He bit his lips wrathfully; but
he did not intend to have his dream
altogether spoiled, and, his anger con-
quering his WEAKNESS, ran lightly up
the narrow stair.
lie burst into the room of the stran-
ger without preface or prelude, and, be-
gan, in high-pitched, womanish voice:
"What in the world" Then he paused,
for he found she was crying. A little,
middle-aged woman, with q wrlnkled
face, and funny elfln locks that fell In
cloud about it. She was standing in
the middle of the room, with her music
stretched out fatty on the table, and
her violin and bow in her hands; stand-
ing, the tears running thickly down her
pale cheeks, without making any at
tempt to wipe them away.
The Poet felt even angrier than be-
fore. Women of that age had no right
to cry SO openly, he thought; it went
against all his theories. He was angry,
too. that he had imagined her to DO
young.
what an abominable row." he said,
savagely. "And what are you crying
about? But it is enough to make any,
one cry!" He was not fur from tears
himself with vexation.
She looked up at him wistfully-she
was but a little thing-and without any
apparent surprise at his presence or alb
rupt entrance. "Ah! should not have
| played again." she sobbcd, "after-aft-
er had given itAp."
"Thcn had guessed aright!" cried
the Poet. yesterday it was renun-
citation, and tosday resignation. But
what had you Sivei, up? What have
you renounceda T9 what are you re-
signed?"
~ don't understand you," she said,
uncomprehendingly She laid her vio-
lin on the table, hanging over it as .
mother does over her child.
when you played yesterday"
"But ! didn't play yesterday" she
cried. "Iwanted too, SO badlyl Tho
storm cried to me; the wind cried; and
the sea cried; and heard them all. I
took my violin in my hand, but could
tell nothing of what hearnd. O, how
unhappy l wasl Then drew the bow
backward and forward across the
strings, but without touching them,
and imagined it all. caught the sob
bling of the sea-god on the end of my
bow; sent out the cry Of the gulls-"
"And the spray of the seal" cried the
"And the eddy and gathering Of tho
foam"
"And the mutter Of the waves!"
"And l. thought of how might have
played had not something, something
been wanting. o, cried to God togive
me the power to play as--as my soul
could play, but for this thing-this mo
that cannot"
''rhe cry for the unattainnble." the
Poet whispered to himself, but she did
not hear or heed him.
ri made a resolution" She dried her
tears briefly at the recollection of 1t.
God would not give me my desire, SO
gave up my semblance of 1t, for I
wanted TO keep my ideal. Then, when
/ had quite made up my mind, how /
could have played thenl BUTT would
not come"
1.-THE triumph" said the Poet. He
smiled imperccptibly TO himself.
"But to-day it was nil SO drcary. It
was all over and there was nothing left.
And aftcHl had thought how 1t was all
over and my last note played. l. thought
would again say good4by to my fiddle.
And | fetched it out and played good
by, but without making sound. And
felt not a bit sorry, butonly strange
feeling here;" she put her hand on her
heart. $50 l played q real little bit to
see il it would take 1t away"
He did not speak. His dream had
come bnck to him; and his thoughts,
like white clouds, foated far, fur away.
"But ! am going away Tomorrow"
she said. with white lips, but firmly;
land l will never play again. Will you
take it, please? Will you take it with
you? L shall never have one again"
She placed violin and bow in his arms,
and he let them rest there, seeing only
the beauty OF his dream.
Then he turned away, and her eyes
followed him as il her heart lay in his
arms. But at the door he paused: You
have given me q gift for which can
simply. s''
She thought he was speaking of the