“Speak it,” she said, “to win my love!”
“Yes,” I cried, startled at her candor, “to win your love.” Hope slowly rekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she said:
“No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.”
Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained her placidity and reverted no more to the subject.
I went out into the gathering gloom. Her words haunted me. A strange feeling came over me. A voice within me cried: “Do not play to-night. Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition of your genius your music, like the warm western wind to the harp, may bring life to her soul.”
I fled, and I am here. I am delving deeper and deeper into the mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place within my grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul of her I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven.
Your affectionate brother,
Angelo.
Island of Bahama, January 2.