“No, I think not. I am going to stay and have some music with Miss Allison.”
He wondered why Miss Allison had made Stella seem suddenly hard, new, almost crude, like the modern furniture in the drawing-room beside the fine old mahogany, with its simple decoration and tone of time.
It was that evening, which he had decided should be his last, that, when their music was over, he handed Miss Allison Clyde a sheet of manuscript music.
“Since you liked it,” he said.
She took it, a faint color coming in her cheek. It was the manuscript of the fifth song of his cycle, “Evening,” and he had dedicated it to her. Involuntarily she moved to give it back to him.
“No, not to me. You are too kind. But you must dedicate it to youth.”
He nodded, with his smile.
“So I have: to the woman who has youth in her heart.” Then he drew out the package of letters. “And these,” he said in a lower voice, “are yours also.” He handed them to her silently.
“Mine?” She turned over the package in doubtful wonder.
“I found them in the desk with the daguerreotype. When you open them you will understand.”