class="smcap">In a drunken rage he caught the girl to the open window—

I'll kill her he screamed. You—who seem to know my name.

The crime was spared him.

Her lifeless body slipped from his arms.

Igor, gasped the mother, You have killed—

I'll kill you!—the wine had infuriated—he lifted his sabre—

Stop—you are my son

Dazed—he heard the words but understood not.

A night of drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau.

The captors had damaged—broken—destroyed.

The sun was setting on a second day—when Igor awoke.

The first time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery

He felt a dead body—the sharp edge of a sabre—

Where—

Orders had come

The army

Had there been battles—

—And slowly memory returned—

Stop—you are my son.

Who had said it—was it long ago—No. Only after the wine cellar—

He sat up—on the floor—where drunkenness had overcome him.

The horrible memory of his crime swept over him.

His mother—

He seized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him—had been his father's—

And he—her son—had plunged his sabre into her heart

His own was bursting.

And this girl. He had not killed her—she had died—

Was she—his sister—only of a different father—

We are through—burn

A hard line played on the lips of the commander

The flames leapt from room to room—

Igor—

The smoke—it was overcoming him—

His mother—

He had forgotten how to pray

An unutterable abyss.

The horror of war

The fire blazed upward—smoke filled the room—

There's the bell—he staggered to his feet—It is ringing

Tell Brother John to light the candles—he walked into the flames—

I am coming.

TWO HAD LIVED [To M. D. R.]

I

Passionately musical—Janet Knott had been sent abroad to study.

Homesick and weary she wandered about in a strange city, knowing not even the language.

The gray sky—the grayer buildings. Was there not in this city a kindly soul—one she could talk to—confide in—

In a narrow street—suddenly the rich deep tones of an organ reached her soul—

Built in among great buildings a small Church. There at least she could find comfort—and the organ.

Was it a Requiem—minor chords—the keys seemed to sob under the pressure of withered hands.

Janet sobbed too. She was homesick. Lonely—

The music stopped and the old organist came down and spoke with her. He asked why she was crying.

Your music is so sad, she whispered—

Ah, my child, that is life—I am told to compose a Requiem—

What youth, filled with the joy of living, could play these minor chords.

I too was young once—A student at the University. I loved life then—

I danced—composed only waltzes—sang love songs. But now—sorrow has played on the chords of my heart—to teach me these deeper tones—to teach me music for the Passion—for the Crucifixion.

You must learn, my child, that through sorrow men accomplish great things.

When they weep they send out tones into the world that men remember and cherish.

Beethoven lived and suffered—and has left to the world things of immortal greatness.

But now—go—else I shall sadden you beyond your years——

Slowly Janet walked through the darkening streets. The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass through fire.

Would she be strong enough—or would weakness—desire for joy—conquer and kill the power within.

II

The homesick girl of seventeen has given place to a worldly wise young woman of twenty-five.

No more longing for the land across the seas. The power within still sleeps—Paris. With its pleasure haunts, its lights, its theatres—

Janet Knott—the center of an admiring coterie—she plays light music—waltzes. The joy of being alive—the whirl of a great city—subdued laughter of groups of men and women walking in the moonlight—the flowering chestnut trees—the roses—

Races of Longchamps—gay colors—a world of excitement.

Life—

Its waves swept over her.

She had chosen between this and art—fulfillment of the Soul.

Sometimes shadows of her power rose—beckoned.

She consoled these moments with coquetry. A success—flowers

The war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.

Something new—

Then—one by one all the men she had known, flirted, danced with, left for the front. To die. That the enemy should not pass.

Paris in danger. Death and sorrow near.

The best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until she could contain it no longer.

One Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction—Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ—sad agonizing chords

Sorrow has played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper tones—

The memory of the little church, of the old organist—of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child.

Her gift—was it dead or only