Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. “Diedermayer’s a kiss-ass. ” “I can assure you,” he answered, “that it isn’t a habit of mine. Earles remarked genially. We two. All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness. ‘Oh, peste. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent.
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