THOUGH nothing had been said about it, Elias took for granted that the Redwoods would expect him Sunday morning; and accordingly, in the neighborhood of nine o’clock, he rang their door-bell. He found them ready for him. Old Redwood sat behind him as he worked at the portrait, and conversation was general throughout. They asked him to stay to dinner, but he was afraid of abusing his welcome, and declined. He went home, shut himself up in his studio, and spent the afternoon thinking regretfully of the good time that he might have been having if he had only accepted.

The first post Monday morning brought him a ticket for the private view of the Academy exhibition to be given that evening. The ticket said, “Admit Mr. E. Bacharach and one.” Elias went to his writing-desk, and, on the spur of his impulse, wrote the following note:

“No.— East Fifteenth Street, Monday.

“My Dear Miss Redwood:—I wonder whether you would care to attend the private view of the coming exhibition this evening? There will no doubt be quite an interesting lot of people there, not to mention the pictures; and perhaps it might amuse you to look in for an hour or so. If you will say yes, I shall be very glad.

“Yours sincerely,

“Elias Bacharach.”

This he inclosed in an envelope, and addressed. Then he sallied forth to the nearest messenger office, and had it sent. Then he returned to his studio to await her answer.

But pretty soon he began to repent what he had done. Surely, upon such brief acquaintance, he had taken too great a liberty. What sort of an opinion would she have of him? Of course, she would say no to his invitation. Oh that he could recall the note—the rash, impetuous note! It was too late to do that; and now he must suffer the consequence of his indiscretion, which would at least be a fall of great distance in her esteem. She would regard him as presumptuous and pushing. She would laugh at him to herself, and with her father, to whom most likely she would show what he had written. Perhaps she would imagine that he was in love with her—girls are notorious for imagining such ridiculous things upon such slight provocation. He, certainly, would never have the hardihood to look her straight in the face again. He walked up and down the floor. Why didn’t the messenger bring her answer? Though he knew, or thought he knew, that it would be a snub and a refusal, he was anxious to get it, all the same. Would the boy never come? Was he purposely delaying? Taking a malicious delight in making his employer wait? Stopping upon some street-corner to spin his top? Or—or had she simply disdained to vouchsafe to his request any reply whatever?—— Ah! The door-bell! Elias’s heart jumped into his mouth. He stepped into the hall, leaned over the banister, and listened.

He heard the maid undo the chain, and open the door. There was an interval of silence. Then he heard her shut it. Then, in a voice tense for excitement, “Maggie,” he called, “is it something for me?”

“Yes, sir; a note.”

He ran down stairs, and met the servant half-way. She gave him the note. “Mr. Elias Bacharach, No.— East Fifteenth Street, N. Y. C.,” was its superscription, in a pretty, girlish hand. The paper had a faint, sweet smell—something like jasmine, something like mignonnette. He carried it back to his studio, unopened. There, having closed the door, he went to his window, drew a long breath, and with trembling fingers broke the seal. Could he believe his senses? Christine’s note ran thus:

“Dear Mr. Bacharach:—Thanks ever so much, and I shall be delighted to go. I have always wanted to go to a private view, but have never been. I hope there are some of your pictures to be seen; are there? You don’t tell me at what hour to expect you; but I’ll be ready at half-past seven. Sincerely yours,

“Christine Redwood.”

Elias’s cheeks burned, his fingers trembled, his temples throbbed, he could feel the blood leap in his veins, as the meaning of this document became apparent to his mind. He read it again and again. He brought it close to his face, and breathed the dainty perfume it exhaled. The pleasure he derived from doing this was wholly disproportionate to the sweetness of the scent. By and by he put it back in its envelope, and deposited it in the drawer of his desk. But he did not leave it there long. In a little while he had it out, and was reading it again, and again inhaling its perfume—which, faint to begin with, had now almost quite evaporated. Still, enough of it remained to send an electric tingle along his nerves, and to cast a wonderfully vivid image of Christine upon the retina of his mind’s eye. For the rest of that day he was incompetent. He could not paint. He could not read. He could not sit still. He could only roam listlessly from place to place, and wonder whether half-past seven would ever arrive.

At twenty minutes past seven precisely, as he learned from his watch, he found himself at the foot of Redwood’s stoop. No: he had traveled on the speed of his desire; it would not do to be beforehand. The ten eternal minutes that lay between him and the appointed time he would while away by walking around the block. He walked slowly, trying to calculate just how many seconds, or fractions of a second, were consumed by each step. At last he had regained his starting point. He mounted the stoop, and rang the bell.

The parlor was empty. Elias picked up Christine’s volume of Rossetti, and absent-mindedly turned the pages. Oh, at what a break-neck pace his arteries were beating.

Hark! He heard a light footstep coming down the stairs. He rose. All at once, it seemed to him, there was a burst of sunlight and oxygen. She had entered. She was standing before him, smiling and bidding him welcome. She had on a tiny bonnet of dark red velvet, under which her golden hair, and her lily-white forehead, and her deep brown eyes, shone at their best. She carried her wrap over her arm—a fur-lined circular. In her left hand she held her gloves. Her right she gave to Elias. His heart fluttered to the verge of fainting as he touched it. How small it was; how warm and soft! How confidingly it seemed to nestle in his! By a mighty effort he subdued an impulse to carry it to his lips and kiss it. He had no idea of letting it go, and perhaps would have continued to hold it to this day, if she by and by had not drawn it away.

“Here are a couple of roses,” he said, handing her a tissue-paper parcel.

She took them, and marveled at their loveliness. She fastened one to her dress, and forced him to wear the other in the lapel of his coat. She stood on tip-toe and pinned it there. The trimming of her bonnet brushed, his cheek. It was an instant of intoxication. He wondered whether she could hear his heart beat.

“It was kind of you to say that you would go. I was afraid you might not care to,” he began.

“On the contrary, it was kind of you to ask me. I am very glad.”

She sat down, and drew on her gloves. He saw that she was having difficulty in buttoning one of them.

“Can’t I help you?” he asked.

Then he held her hand, and buttoned her glove for her, and breathed the incense that rose from the flower at her breast. Then he wrapped her in her circular; and they left the house. He offered her his arm. Her little hand perched like a bird upon it.

“I am so happy,” he said softly, and immediately regretted that he had said it.

“So am I,” she said, still more softly; and straightway his regret died.

He looked into her eyes. Far down in them palpitated a mystic, tender light. Elias had to bite his tongue to keep from telling her then and there that he loved her.

At the exhibition he pointed out the distinguished people to her, and showed her the pictures which he thought were the best, and was happy, happy, happy. Now and then somebody would nod and say: “How d’ye do, Bacharach?” and cast an admiring glance at his companion, which stirred his pride. Once a gentleman stopped and spoke a few words to Christine, and won a smile from her, which pricked his jealousy. He feared that it was not at all the proper thing to do, but he could not help asking, “A friend of yours?”

“Oh, no,” she answered; “only our old drawing teacher at the Normal College.” At that he was happy again. She wanted him to lead her straight to his own picture at once. By and by they had reached it. The subject was “The Song of Deborah.” The prophetess was represented as a woman of about fifty years of age, tall, stalwart, imperious-looking, with iron-gray hair, steel-blue eyes, and a head of stern and majestic beauty. Christine thought the coloring was superb, and, “Where did you ever find such a wonderful face?” she asked. “It is a face to make you afraid, it’s so strong, so proud; and yet it is a face that you could not help loving; there is something so good about it. Oh, I like it the best of all the pictures here.” Elias felt that he had not worked in vain.

There was a great crush of people, and the air was close and hot, and the few seats where one might rest one’s self were all occupied; so presently Elias asked whether she wasn’t tired, and she confessed that she was—a little; and they left the building.

“Now,” said he, “it’s still early, and I for one am ravenously hungry.”

“Oh, are you? That’s too bad,” was her guileless response. “But at home I shall be able to give you”—timidly—“some—some cold turkey.”

“No,” he said, “I shan’t put you to that trouble. Let’s go to a restaurant.”

And he led her to Delmonico’s.

There, the momentous question, what they had better order, occasioned much grave debate, and resulted finally in the selection of a sweet-bread garnished by green peas. Elias thought that Beaune would be the wine best adapted to moistening a sweet-bread, and accordingly Beaune was brought, as Christine remarked curiously, “in a little basket.” She applied herself to the edibles with undisguised relish; but all at once, pausing and looking reproachfully at Elias, she exclaimed, “Why, you said you were ravenously hungry, and now you’re not eating a thing!” Indeed, she spoke the truth. His knife and fork lay unemployed beside his plate; and he was doing nothing but gaze at her with fond, caressing eyes.

“Oh, I forgot,” he said, and began to eat and drink.

They chatted busily during the repast—about the people who came and went, about the marvelous toilets of some of the ladies, about the decorations of the restaurant, about the haughty mien and supercilious manner of the French gentleman in evening dress who served them, about the view of electric-lighted Madison Square that they got through the window at which they were established—about a thousand trifles. Afterward Elias preserved but a very dim remembrance of the words that they had spoken. He preserved a very vivid one of Christine’s appearance—of how her eyes had glowed beneath her red bonnet, of how the rose he had given her had shone like a spot of flame in her bosom—and of the bliss that he had experienced in sitting opposite her, and watching the varying expressions of her face, hearkening to the varying modulations of her voice, and realizing that she was trusting herself entirely to his protection.

Again by and by he had the privilege of helping her on with her circular, and of buttoning her glove. They got into a street car to go up town. The first half of that journey Elias found delightful. They had to sit very close together, to make room for other passengers; and all the while Elias was conscious of the touch of her shoulder upon his arm. But, as he saw the end drawing near, and knew that the moment was not far off when he would have to leave her, his spirits began to sink. Why could not the distance be doubled, trebled? What possessed the driver to race his horses so? Surely, street car had never covered its tracks at such reckless speed before. He rang her door-bell for her, and tried to harden himself to the thought that in another minute he would have to say good-by.

Old Redwood himself answered the door-bell.

“Come in for a moment, Mr. Bacharach, and get thawed out,” he said.

Elias breathed freely. Here was a reprieve, at any rate. They went into the back parlor, and gathered around a cheerful grate fire. Christine gave her father an account of the evening’s doings. At last Elias screwed his courage up, and tore himself away. Christine went with him to the vestibule. He got hold of her hand, and clung to it for the entire five minutes that it took him to pronounce his valedictory.

Body burning, brain whirling, as if with fever, he walked home. A wild joy trembled in his heart; a wild pain, too. He loved her. To-night, at last, for the first time, he had recognized this very palpable and patent fact. He loved her. There could be no doubt about it. With a sensation of genuine surprise, the simple fellow acknowledged to himself that he loved her—with genuine surprise and consternation. Perhaps some time she might love him a little in return. But even so, he knew that between her and himself there yawned a gulf, fathomless and impassable; and in spite of his desire and his passion, he cried out, “God forbid!”

He let himself into the house with his latch-key. Through the glass door of his uncle’s study, at the end of the hall, he could see that a light was still burning within. He threw off his hat and overcoat, and marched into the rabbi’s presence.

“How that good man would start,” he thought, “if he should guess!”