my own face. Dear little stricken heart! Poor and alone in the world, yet rich in a voice that angels might envy.
That winter Uncle Max sent us both to New York City, where Adele's voice was to be trained. Tireless in her devotion to her work, at the end of two years Signor Laerti sent her back to Seattle, with, "You know all that I know. I have not improved your voice, God gave you that perfect. I have given you style, ease, and nothing more."
Very soon after our return a musical club in Tacoma planned to give a Festival of Music. Adele was to sing. A German tenor who had within the year come to the city to take charge of a lately acquired inheritance was to appear also.
Adele charmed us. Her long, slim figure, in its soft, trailing robes of whitest white, was grace itself, and the heavy crown of blue-black hair made a fitting frame for her sweet, serious face. Musical Tacoma, filling the Opera House to the doors, listened almost reverently. For what seemed a full minute after she had left the stage the hush was not broken. Then came thunders of applause. I knew the culture and travel of that city full of people, and I knew that this was no small tribute from that ultra-critical audience.
Afterwards, Herr Heinrich sang. Adele had come to our box, and sat beside me, her thin, white hand on mine in my lap. From Heinrich's first note Adele did not once take her gaze from him. Again and again his eyes sought her as he poured forth the passionate burden of a German love song. Adele's hand rested heavily on mine. I shuddered as if a living voice had warned me of these two.
When we left the theater to meet the ladies and their guests again at a reception at the Tacoma Hotel, Herr Heinrich was presented. I observed him closely. Small need of that when I instinctively recoiled from him. I saw two pitiless grey eyes look down deep into the lustrous brown ones of my darling. I saw Adele's eyes flash once up to his with all her innocent soul in them, and I almost screamed. I longed to drag her away. I felt impending danger for her, even as the animals feel the coming storm.
To regain my self-control, I left them and walked away to an adjoining room. I had taken but a step into the next parlor when I noticed a tall, well formed, well dressed woman, with a great coil of flaxen hair, standing almost hidden by the folds of a portiere, her gaze fixed so earnestly on some one in the next room that she did not observe me. I turned. Her eyes were fixed on Heinrich and Adele, who stood alone as I had left them. I supposed she was a guest in the hotel who wanted to see the singers, and thought no more about her, as she soon left.
The next day I was no less troubled. Adele was more quiet than usual, and as we stepped aboard the Flyer I wished it was the ocean we were about to cross instead of this narrow bit of water between the two cities. We were hardly out of the harbor when Adele whispered: "Genie, Herr Heinrich will soon call." I groaned. I almost sobbed. Adele was all attention. "Why, Genie, Genie, dear, are you ill?" "No, no, not ill, Adele. I'm just tired, that's all," I replied.
Months passed, in which Heinrich almost lived at Uncle Max's. Need I say that Adele loved him? She was so happy. He had traveled in all countries and sung in the great theaters of all. His knowledge of musical literature, history and tradition was wonderful, and a daily feast for Adele's receptive soul. But she was happiest when they sang together.
Through one long year I watched and studied her lover, trying to shake off my fear and distrust. I could not. He stood an ever present menace to my Adele, my more than sister.
"Genie," she would say, throwing her arms about me, "you are so good to me. You give me my voice. You give me my Otto. You give me everything. Ah, I cannot repay you, I can only love you, and love you, and love you."
As if the love of an angel of light were not riches untold!
At last I spoke to Uncle Max of my feeling toward Heinrich. I could scarcely find words to say what I meant, it was all so vague, and Uncle
