The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn.
A messenger brought him this note:
My Dear Signor Diotti—I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven.
Sincerely,
Mildred Wallace.
The messenger returned with this reply:
My Dear Miss Wallace—I will call at three to-day.
Gratefully,
Angelo Diotti.
He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming.
Dressed in simple white, entrancing in her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, her eyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands. He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: “My heart has found its melody!”
He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old: “The song and the singer are yours forever.”
She, bidding him arise: “And I forever yours.” And wondering at her boldness, she added, “I know and feel that you love me—your eyes confirmed your love before you spoke.” Then, convincingly and ingenuously, “I knew you loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what that meant to you, now I do.”
He drew her gently to him, and the motive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: “My love, my life—My life, my love.”