CHAPTER VIII.

While he was still in bed the next morning there was brought to Tande by the sailor's wife a letter. It had a dainty, old-fashioned, somewhat yellow, glazed envelope, and the address was written in an unpracticed lady's hand, with delicate characters, of which those extending below the lines terminated in a little superfluous flourish, as if afraid of being round and yet with a strong tendency to become so.

"From whom can this be?" thought Tande.

He opened the letter. It was signed "Magnhild." A warm glow ran through him, and he read:--

HR. H. TANDE,--I thank you very much for your kindness to me, and for the instruction you have so generously given me. My husband has said that you have no room-rent to pay.

I am obliged to go away without waiting for an opportunity to tell you of this. Once more my best thanks. MAGNHILD.

He read the letter through at least five times. Then he studied each word, each character. This epistle had cost fully ten rough sketches and discarded copies; he was sure of it. The word "Magnhild" was written with more skill than the rest; the writer must have had frequent practice in that early in life.

But with such trifling discoveries Tande could not silence the terrible accusation that stared at him from this letter. He lay still a long time after letting the letter drop from his hands.

Presently he began to drum on the sheet with the fingers of his right hand; he was playing the soprano part of a melody. Had it reached the piano, and had Magnhild heard it, she would surely have recognized it.

Suddenly Tande sprang out of bed and into the adjoining room. Stationing himself behind the curtain he took a cautious survey of the opposite house. Quite right: the windows were all open, two women were at work cleaning; the house was empty. Tande paced the floor and whistled. He walked until he was chilled through. Then he began to dress. It usually took him an hour to make his toilet, during which he went from time to time to the piano. To-day he required two hours, and yet he did not once go near the piano.

In the forenoon he took a long walk, but not to the spots they had all visited together. During this walk what had occurred began to assume a shape which made him feel less guilty than he had felt at first. The next day he scarcely felt that he was in the least to blame. Toward evening of the third day his conscience began again to trouble him; but on the following morning he rose from his couch ready to smile over the whole affair.

The first day he had twice commenced a letter to Magnhild but had torn up each effort. On the fourth day he found, instead of the attempted letter, a musical theme. This was capable of being developed into a complex, richly harmonized composition, full of magnificent unrest. Several bars of the simple, refined melody which had conjured up for Magnhild dreams of her childhood might be sprinkled through it. Could not the two motives be brought into conflict?

But as he failed to succeed to his satisfaction, Tande concluded that neither at this place nor it this time could it be accomplished. He remained at the Point one week longer, and then packing up his things he departed. The piano he left behind him, and the key with it. He set forth for Germany.