He rose, and Celia accompanied him to the door; it was only a few steps

distant; but the old man moved towards it as if he had been accustomed

to traversing apartments of a larger size. As Celia opened the door, the

one opposite hers opened at the same moment, and a lady came out.

Judging by her figure, for her face was thickly veiled, she was young;

she was plainly but richly dressed, and wore a coat and muff of sable.

Her appearance was so strangely different from that of the residents and

visitors of the Buildings that Celia could not help staring at her with

surprise. As if she were conscious of, and resented, Celia's intent

regard, the lady turned her head away, and, keeping as near the wall as

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possible, descended the stairs quickly.

Celia and Mr. Clendon neither exchanged glances nor made any remark.

With a gesture of farewell and thanks, he went down. Half-unconsciously,

she stood looking at the door which the lady had closed after her; then

Celia shut hers and went back to clearing away the tea.

When Mr. Clendon had asked her if she had fitted a history to the young

man who had interested her so much, she had replied in the negative; but

now, involuntarily, she began to do so. Of course, he was in trouble;

probably in debt; this beautifully-dressed woman was his sister, or,

perhaps, his sweetheart; she had come to help him, to comfort him.

Something in the idea was pleasant and welcome to Celia; he was such a

good-looking young fellow; that voice of his, which used to sing but had

become silent lately, had a good, true ring in it; yes, it was nice to

think that his sister--or his sweetheart--had come to bring him comfort.

She sat down to her notes; but she could not concentrate herself upon

her work. The imaginary history of the young man obtruded upon her; she

decided that she would go out for a walk, and take up her work again

when she returned. She was getting her coat and hat when Mr. Clendon

began to play; she changed her mind about the walk and went to the door

to open it an inch or so, that she might hear more distinctly the soft

strains of the Beethoven Sonata which came floating up to her. As she

opened the door, she heard a strange sound rising above the notes of the

music; it was that, perhaps, most terrible of all sounds, the unbidden,

irresistible groan, rising from a man's tortured heart; and it came from

the young man's room.




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