Money And Titles May Be Hereditary," She

Music Is The Most Absorbing Of All The Arts. It Absorbs The Mind Of The Artist, Whether Creator Or Executant, To The Exclusion Of Every Other Consideration Outside His Own Immediate Necessities Or Desires.

A Surging, Seething, Murmuring Crowd Of Beings That Are Human Only In Name, For To The Eye And Ear They Seem Naught But Savage Creatures, Animated By Vile Passions And By The Lust Of Vengeance And Of Hate. The Hour, Some Little Time Before Sunset, And The Place, The West Barricade, At The Very Spot Where, A Decade Later, A Proud Tyrant Raised An Undying Monument To The Nation's Glory And His Own Vanity.

Now, When Their Glances Met, They Understood One Another. The Power That Lay Within Both Their Souls Had Met, And, As It Were, Clasped Hands. They Accepted One Another's Sacrifice. Hers, Mayhap, Was The More Complete Of The Two, Because For Her His Absence Would Mean Weary Waiting, The Dull Heartache So Terrible To Bear.

She, Too, Had Worn A Mask In Assuming A Contempt For Him, Whilst, As A Matter Of Fact, She Completely Misunderstood Him

Thus Human Beings Judge Of One Another, Superficially, Casually, Throwing Contempt On One Another, With But Little Reason, And No Charity.