Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. " This she did carefully, but inwardly commenting that he was still in the realm of strange fancies. If it came at all, it was as fleeting as the girl's smile. She became as The Tigress, a free thing. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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