his pocket, a tiny German book with small print and a miniature wall-paper pattern inside its flexible covers. It was called Die Leiden des jungen Werther. He found a comfortable seat on the pile of cord-wood and began to read.
Paul's hopeless wonderment regarding Aunt Verona added to the weight of hopeless love for Phœbe Meddar and the weight of Walter's betrayal pressed heavily on his mind. Fortunately his long hours at the piano and organ, the choir rehearsals at Miss Todd's, and his literary treasure-trove gave him the opportunity of merging his perplexities in an endless stream of fancy. Music was the most satisfactory outlet. He could even imagine, for instance, that he was Mlle. Verona Windell, and that the chairs and engravings in the playroom were the rapt and gaping citizens of Vienna. A yellow silk handkerchief tied round his head unaccountably heightened the illusion.
Or, when that rôle palled, he could imagine he was a grown-up Monsieur Minas, playing sonatas which he had made out of his own head, and that his audience was Mlle. Phœbe Meddar, a charming young lady from Canada whose pale gold hair and heliotrope gowns were the admiration of swarthy foreigners. At the end of the piece, when Mlle. Meddar had expressed her approval and averted her violet-blue eyes, he would lean forward and whisper, "Ah, my dear Mademoiselle Meddar, I am going to write a beautiful book, and on the front page I will write an inscription to you. Never shall I forget our evenings together in Munich and Vienna."
And Mlle. Meddar would reply, "Oh, Monsieur Minas, will you?"
With the reopening of school in September, Mark Laval made his reappearance. He had shot up and
