"Not yet," replied Von Barwig, "I am to go next week." Then he added with a little laugh, "The young ladies postpone me as long as possible."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Denning, the under-butler, who informed Miss Stanton that her father wished to see her in the library. Von Barwig saw a downcast expression on Hélène's face as she left the room. "Perhaps he does not approve of the marriage, this Mr. Stanton. Well, I do!" he said with emphasis. "I do, and I am determined that she shall marry the man of her choice. He is a splendid fellow, fully worthy of her. If this father interferes, I shall— Let me see, what shall I do?"

Von Barwig laughed at his own foolishness in allowing his thoughts to run on unchecked. Somehow they always led him into a ridiculous position from which he could never extricate himself.

"I shall tell this father," he went on in a more compromising vein of thought, "I shall tell him that his daughter's happiness is at stake, and that he must not allow personal considerations to interfere with that happiness. Then he will have me flung out of his house. No, thank you, Barwig, you will not speak; but none the less that is what I think! Her happiness first, last and all the time. Let me tell you a secret, Mr. Stanton," said Von Barwig mentally. His thoughts rushed him along pell-mell now and he followed them, thoroughly enjoying the mental pictures they brought up. "Let me tell you my secret, Mr. Stanton! She is my daughter as well as yours. I have adopted her. She does not know it, nor do you, but I do! She has taken the place of my own little one and I love her, Mr. Stanton. I love her just as much, aye, even more than you do, sir, and this love gives me the right to speak. You shall not interfere with her happiness! Do you hear me, sir?"

Von Barwig had now lashed himself into a whirlwind of imaginary indignation and was pacing up and down the music room; his thoughts completely engrossing him. They were the only realities in life to him now, these thoughts, and he treasured them as philosophers do the truths of existence. All at once his eye caught a pile of music that lay on the table next to Miss Stanton's dolls' cabinet in the corner of the room opposite the piano. He observed the Beethoven Concerto for pianoforte which had Hélène Stanton's name on it, also the C Minor and F Minor concertos of Chopin, besides other compositions for pianoforte of an exceedingly difficult character; all this music was marked with her name and the date.

"There must be some mistake," he thought, as he read the names. "She cannot play these difficult compositions, surely! It may be her mother had played them, but no, they are dated within a year or so of the present day!"

Everything was explained to him now. He was no longer surprised at the unaccountable unevenness of her playing. She had deceived him. "Why, why?" he wondered.

Then it came to him. "Of course! Fool, dolt, idiot! she wanted to benefit you, so she pretends she cannot play and takes lessons she does not need. But why should she wish to befriend you, why?"

Von Barwig was silent a long time. "Why, why?" he kept asking himself and his thoughts could get no further. "Am I dreaming?" He looked around. "Is it all a dream? Do I merely believe these things happen, or are they real? Sometimes these people seem like phantoms of the past; phantoms that come and vanish like the thoughts that give them existence. There seems to be no substance in them. But real or phantom, dreaming or waking, my love for her is real. That is God's truth! I feel it, I know it! I love her, I love her! Of that alone I am certain. That is truth, if nothing else is!"

In the meantime, Hélène found her father awaiting her in the library. Mr. Stanton was in very excellent spirits.