"
"We are 'sorry for' people who are unequal to things. I'm sorry with you,
not for you, Karl."
"Ernestine,"--with an affectionate little laugh--"is there _anything_ you
don't understand?"
"You might play a little for me," he said after a silence. "Play that
thing that ends in a question."
"Of Liszt's?"
"Yes; the one that leaves you wondering."
At first she had resented bitterly her not being able to play more
satisfyingly. If only music were her work! It seemed an almost malicious
touch that fate, in taking away Karl's own work, had also shut him out
from hers. Resentment at that had made it hard for her to play for him at
all, at first. But she had overcome that, and had been able to make music
mean much to them both. They loved especially the music which seemed to
translate for them things within their own hearts.
But to-night when Ernestine had left him pondering a minute the question
he said Liszt always left with him, she turned, eagerly it seemed, to
lighter things.
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