lost his courage and forgot all that had been in his heart to say. Presently, without warning, the master whipped open his double fiddle-case and took from it his precious Guarnerius. Was Klaus to hear him play, indeed! In the lessons, he had given only fragments in burning tones, runs clipped thrilling from the fingerboard, or again only a word or a gesture that showed the heart of things. Now he was to play! The violin trembled and rang under the attack of his opening chords, and then the clear "first melody" soared forth, rich as the color of tulips in the sun - the very melody that had uplifted the heart of Klaus long ago in the spring twilight, when he had listened in the alleyway that had held him, flitting now, now coming to him in full light. Long hours had Klaus himself wrestled with it when he was alone remembering and again filling in the lost spaces with his own musical thought, playing, humming, crying sometimes with eagerness and vexation. Why had he not known before? That white hand, that tone, they all were his master's.

now

He walked to the end of the room, nodding his head, listening with closed eyes, or following with uplifted finger the trend of a modulation. As Klaus stood there the music possessed him, swaying his body never so lightly, as if it were breathing upon a flame, giving to his head now and then a motion of emphasis in which were both joy and power. Klaus had forgotten the master's presence. It was only when he had closed the music with full, slowly declining notes that he became shy again, and longed to lay by the violin and run away.

But the Herr Professor laid his hands on his shoulders, looking down into his face as Klaus had never seen him look before.

"Klaus, dear child, dear child," he said softly, "you are to play. Remember, it is a God-gift to you. Do not imagine it is yourself."

He still held him, looking at him, and Klaus had no words to answer.

Suddenly the Herr Professor's face brightened. "Come," he said. "Let us go to that good father of thine. He shall play again in his son. I was an old blockhead before." Klaus watched him, wondering, as he bundled himself again into his greatcoat with its broad fur collar. Then the master took Klaus by the hand and they went out together.

People who passed them on the street wondered where the great musician had found the shy, rosy-cheeked boy, and why he smiled so lovingly upon him, as if he were his own.

66

Mary Ann," said her aunt, and the name had never sounded so portentous, "It was my mother's name. You should feel it an honor to bear it. If you ever come to be as good a woman as your grandmother, your name will deserve and will have the respect of every one who knows you."

Mary Ann was subdued but not convinced. That ended it as far as any attempt to soften this affliction went. But her name was not poor little Mary Ann's only cross. There were her hair, and her clothes. It was really too bad about the hair, for if treated kindly it would have been the loveliest in the Bellamy School, of that reddish gold tint so dear to artists; long, abundant, and rippling from the roots. But Aunt Harriet brushed and combed, and combed and brushed so vigorously, and braided so tightly, with ends securely tied, that the ripple almost straightened out in despair.

And now as the warm days approached, ginghams blue, and ginghams pink, ginghams plaided, and ginghams striped, all made with pretty yokes or guimpes, made the school yard look like an animated flower garden, and Mary Ann in her dark brown linen (made over from one of her aunt's) like a dull little grub in the midst of a flock of butterflies.

"A fine material!" declared Aunt Harriet, holding it up to the light; "not another girl in school will have a dress of such quality. It will wear forever."

"I'm sure it will," said poor Mary Ann with unconscious irony, as she donned it the third

season.

But to-day it seemed worse than usual. A sense of injustice, of being different from the other girls and at a disadvantage, welled up from her heart and overflowed the blue eyes. By a strange chance, the prettiest, most musical names in the class were those that preceded hers. Miss Bradford had not meant it unkindly. She had simply indicated the pupils in

"You have all heard," said their teacher, "of Miss Sybil Harrington, the authoress."

Of course they had. Within a few years her name had become known wherever the English language was read, and old and young alike delighted in her genius.

"She is an old college friend of mine," said Miss Bradford, "and as she is the guest of some friends near here this week, she has promised to come in and visit my class this afternoon. Now, girls and boys," with an anxious glance towards the more strenuous side of the room "I depend upon you, one and all, to do credit to our class and the school." Mary Ann's keen little face, all alive with delighted anticipation, responded eagerly to every word the teacher uttered. Not one there was so familiar with Miss Harrington's writings as she; not one cherished so intense an enthusiasm for the writer. Indeed, at this period, Mary Ann's admiration for literary ability amounted to a passion. To write, to be able to put into words all the lovely thoughts that came into one's mind so that the world would like to read them,—that. seemed to her a summit so high that while she never expected to reach it herself, she could look up with awe to all who had worthily won their spurs. She had never seen a live authoress, and to think that one was to be in their midst that day!

"There is not time to prepare anything new," said Miss Bradford, "but Pauline and Doris will repeat the recitations they gave us Memorial Day; Marjorie and Gladys will play their duet; Mildred will sing; and Mary Ann," with an affectionate glance at the eager little face, "will read her last composition."

Mary Ann gasped. It was an honor, but rather an appalling one, to read anything of her own before the distinguished visitor; but Mary Ann was not lacking in courage, which rose to the occasion now; and it was with trembling hands but determined spirit that, when school was dismissed, she remained behind and took from her desk the composition, to see if it could in any way be improved before the ordeal of reading it that afternoon.

But as she did so, her eyes fell again upon the blackboard, and the despised name stared her in the face.

Miss Bradford had stepped out into the corridor and was busily talking with the principal, and the little girl was alone in the room, save for one boy, a new scholar, who had come in that morning.

As she looked, the Y of Mary and the A of Ann seemed to dwindle in size, and the final N to vanish altogether. How easy it would be to change Miss Bradford's writing just a little, and then behold! The names transformed danced before her eyes in couples,

PAULINE AND DORIS.

MARJORIE AND GLADYS. MILDRED AND MARIAN!

"I'll do it!" declared Mary Ann aloud. She slipped from her seat and ran swiftly to the board. The eraser was in her hand; it rested on the Y, when a voice exclaimed,

"I say! I would n't."

Dumbfounded, Mary Ann turned to see the new boy standing beside her. He was not a handsome boy, but he had a strong face with frank brown eyes and a good chin; a face that promised well for the man he would be by and by. But Mary Ann eyed him indignantly. "What is it to you?" she demanded, "can't I do as I please with my own?"

"Why, I suppose you can," said the boy slowly, “if—if it doesn't hurt anybody else; but somehow, with names, you know, it most always does."

Mary Ann dropped the eraser and hid her face in her hands, but she could not shut out a vision of Aunt Harriet's accusing eyes, and Grandmother Bean looking just like the portrait in the front parlor, only the face wore such a grieved and hurt expression; and worst of all, she seemed to see herself, a little four-year-old girl, led into a sick room where her father lay, and she felt his hand stroking her hair as he murmured,

"My little Mary Ann, you were named for one of the best women in the world. Try and be like her."

"O dear, O dear," she cried, looking up at the boy beside her, "You don't know, you never

And then, as a twinkle of amusement came into the brown eyes, the blue ones responded, and boy and girl went off into such a peal of laughter that Miss Bradford came hurrying back into the room in alarm.

Mary Ann skipped home from school quite merrily that noon. Somehow a companion in misery made the burden of her name so much lighter.

Aunt Harriet relaxed so far as to allow her small niece to wear her Sunday muslin for the great occasion. It was made to the ankles to allow for growth, and was guiltless of ruffle or furbelow of any sort, but its tint was a lovely lavender, and Mary Ann was secretly conscious that she looked uncommonly well in it. The white hair ribbons were all in evidence this afternoon, making the room look as if a flock of white doves had settled upon the heads of half its occupants. But Mary Ann, as she left the dressing-room, smoothed down the lavender muslin with satisfaction, gave her hair a savage little pull which brought down two stray locks on either side, and as she took her seat was almost content.

To tell the truth, she was a little disappointed that Miss Harrington looked so very much like any other well-bred young woman. I don't know just what she expected, but I think at least she looked for an inky forefinger and rather dishevelled hair; whereas Miss Harrington, in immaculate white from head to foot, her fluffy Pompadour in as good order as Fashion allows one to be in these days, and her slender white fingers with their manicured nails and glittering rings, was suggestive of anything but the typical bluestocking. The frank delight she took in all the efforts put forth for her entertainment showed her to be quite unspoiled, though so famous, and everything on the program was carried out remarkably

well. The Memorial Day recitations with their mingled patriotism and pathos were almost as thrilling as on the day for which they were written, and as usual caused the tender-hearted among the girls to sniff audibly, and the boys to square their shoulders and shuffle their feet uneasily under the desks to hide their feelings. The musical portion of the day's program went with unusual spirit, and Marjorie, Gladys FLORENCE STORER and Mildred returned to their seats covered with glory, and the envy of all their classmates. Miss Harrington appeared pleased with all, but when Miss Bradford said,

"Now we are to listen to a composition," and the quaint little figure in the old-fashioned muslin mounted the platform, her face lighted with a new interest, and she leaned forward and listened with eyes that never left the young reader until it ended.

"The dear!" she said softly to her friend. "They were all interesting, but she is unique! May I say a word to them, Amy?"

And then, turning to the rows of expectant young faces before her, in a few appreciative words she told them how much she had enjoyed their pleasant entertainment.

of-of-" she glanced at the list of names on the board.

She was coming to it! She would see it,-the queer little name, so different from the others! And the owner of it shivered as she waited.

But suddenly Miss Harrington uttered an exclamation which sounded very much like one of delight, and then-to the astonishment of

"Where all who took part have done so well," she said, "perhaps it would be ungracious to praise any one especially, but I cannot refrain from telling the writer of that composition that in my judgment it was an uncommonly good one. It was well expressed, well read, and-best of all-it was original. We shall look for more some day from the pen

the whole room - she stepped down from the platform to Mary Ann's seat, put both arms around the little girl, and exclaimed,

"Mary Ann Bean! Tell me, dear, where did you get that name?

"It was my grandmother's," faltered Mary Ann, apologetically, as one who would say, "I did n't choose it. Please don't blame me." "I knew it!" cried the young lady, delight