he exclaimed.
“He's gone home again,” said Helen, in a dissatisfied tone.
“Home!” exclaimed the other. “To Hilltown?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought he was going to stay until tomorrow.”
“So did I,” said Helen, “but he changed his mind and decided that he'd better not.”
“Why, I am really disappointed,” said Mr. Davis. “I thought we should have a little family party; I haven't seen Arthur for a month.”
“There is some important reason,” said Helen—“that's what he told me, anyway.” She did not want her father to have any idea of the true reason, or to ask any inconvenient questions.
Mr. Davis would perhaps have done so, had he not something else on his mind. “By the way, Helen,” he said, “I must ask you, what in the world was that fearful noise you were making?”
“Noise?” asked Helen, puzzled for a moment.
“Why, yes; I met old Mr. Nelson coming down the street, and he said that you were making a most dreadful racket upon the piano, and shouting, too, and that there were a dozen people standing in the street, staring!”
A sudden wild thought occurred to Helen, and she whirled about. Sure enough, she found the two windows of the room wide open; and that was too much for her gravity; she flung herself upon the sofa and gave vent to peal after peal of laughter.
“Oh, Daddy!” she gasped. “Oh, Daddy!”
Mr. Davis did not understand the joke, but he waited patiently, taking off his gloves in the meantime. “What it is, Helen?” he enquired.
“Oh, Daddy!” exclaimed the girl again, and lifted herself up and turned her laughing eyes upon him. “And now I understand why inspired people have to live in the country!”
“What was it, Helen?”
“It—it wasn't anything, Daddy, except that I was playing and singing for Arthur, and I forgot to close the windows.”
“You must remember, my love, that you live in a clergyman's house,” said Mr. Davis. “I have no objection to merriment, but it must be within bounds. Mr. Nelson said that he did not know what to think was the matter.”
Helen made a wry face at the name; the Nelsons were a family of Methodists who lived across the way. Methodists are people who take life seriously as a rule, and Helen thought the Nelsons were very queer indeed.
“I'll bet he did know what to think,” she chuckled, “even if he didn't say it; he thought that was just what to expect from a clergyman who had a decanter of wine on his dinner table.”
Mr. Davis could not help smiling. And as for Helen, she was herself all over again; for when her father had come in, she had about reached a point where she could no longer bear to be serious and unhappy. As he went on to ask her to be a little less reckless, Helen put her arms around him and said, with the solemnity that she always wore when she was gayest: “But, Daddy, I don't know what I'm to do; you sent me to Germany to study music, and if I'm never to play it—”
“Yes, but Helen; such frantic, dreadful noise!”
“But, Daddy, the Germans are emotional people, you know; no one would have been in the least surprised at that in Germany; it was a hymn, Daddy!”
“A hymn!” gasped Mr. Davis.
“Yes, honestly,” said Helen. “It is a wonderful hymn. Every German knows it nearly by heart.”
Mr. Davis had as much knowledge of German music as might be expected of one who had lived twenty years in the country and heard three hymns and an anthem sung every Sunday by a volunteer choir. Helen's musical education, as all her other education, had been superintended by Aunt Polly, and the only idea that came to Mr. Davis' mind was of Wagner, whose name he had heard people talk about in connection with noise and incoherency.
“Helen,” he said, “I trust that is not the kind of hymn you are going to sing to-morrow.”
“I don't know,” was the puzzled reply. “I'll see what I can do, Daddy. It's dreadfully hard to find anything in German music like the slow-going, practical lives that we dull Yankees lead.” Then a sudden idea occurred to the girl, and she ran to the piano with a gleeful laugh: “Just see, for instance,” she said, fumbling hurriedly amongst her music, “I was playing the Moonlight Sonata this morning, and that's a good instance.”
“This is the kind of moonlight they have in Germany,” she laughed when she found it. After hammering out a few discords of her own she started recklessly into the incomprehensible “presto,” thundering away at every crescendo as if to break her fingers. “Isn't it fine, Daddy?” she cried, gazing over her shoulder.
“I don't see what it has to do with the moon,” said the clergyman, gazing helplessly at the open window, and wondering if another crowd was gathering.
“That's what everybody's been trying to find out!” said Helen; then, as she heard the dinner bell out in the hall, she ended with half a dozen frantic runs, and jumping up with the last of them, took her father's arm and danced out of the room with him.
“Perhaps when we come to see the other side of the moon,” she said, “we may discover all about it. Or else it's because the moon is supposed to set people crazy.” So they passed in to dinner, where Helen was as animated as ever, poor Arthur and his troubles seeming to have vanished completely from her thoughts.
In fact, it was not until the meal was nearly over that she spoke of them again; she noticed that it was growing dark outside, and she stepped to the window just as a distant rumble of thunder was heard.
“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “There's a fearful storm coming, and poor Arthur is out in it; he must be a long way from town by this time, and there is no house where he can go.” From the window where she stood she had a view across the hills in back of the town, and could see the black clouds coming swiftly on. “It is like we were imagining this morning,” she mused; “I wonder if he will think of it.”
The dinner was over soon after that, and she looked out again, just as the first drops of rain were falling; the thunder was rolling louder, bringing to Helen a faint echo of her morning music. She went in and sat down at the piano, her fingers roaming over the keys hesitatingly. “I wish I could get it again,” she mused. “It seems like a dream when I think of it, it was so wild and so wonderful. Oh, if I could only remember that march!”
There came a crash of thunder near by, as if to help her, but Helen found that all efforts were in vain. Neither the storm music nor the march came back to her, and even when she played a few chords of the great chorus she had sung, it sounded tame and commonplace. Helen knew that the glory of that morning was gone where goes the best inspiration of all humanity, back into nothingness and night.
“It was a shame,” she thought, as she rose discontentedly from the piano. “I never was so carried away by music in my life, and the memory of it would have kept me happy for weeks, if Arthur hadn't been here to trouble me!”
Then, however, as she went to the window again to watch the storm which was now raging in all its majesty, she added more unselfishly: “Poor boy! It is dreadful to think of him being out in it.” She saw a bolt of lightning strike in the distance, and she waited breathlessly for the thunder. It was a fearful crash, and it made her blood run faster, and her eyes sparkle. “My!” she exclaimed. “But it's fine!” And then she added with a laugh, “He can correct his poem by it, if he wants to!”
She turned to go upstairs. On the way she stopped with a rather conscience-stricken look, and said to herself, “Poor fellow! It seems a shame to be happy!” She stood for a moment thinking, but then she added, “Yet I declare, I don't know what to do for him; it surely isn't my fault if I am not in love with him in that mad fashion, and I don't see