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“‘Now don’t be cross,’ said she. ‘As I told you in my note, Sarah Castle was here this morning, and she greatly troubled my mind about you. She told me I was actually snappish with you when she was here last night. She had never heard me speak to any one in such an ill-natured way. She knew very well that I do not care for inventions and machines, but she did not consider this any reason for my treating you in such a manner. She said I ought to have known that your whole soul is wrapped up in the queer things you invent, and that I should have made some allowance for you, even if I did not care about such things myself. Now when she told me this I knew that every word was true, and I was utterly ashamed of myself; and as soon as she left I sent you that note because I wanted you to let me beg your pardon–which you may consider has been done. And now please let me see your speaking-tube. I want you to explain it to me; I want to know how it is made, and what is its object. For I know very well that even if your inventions are not successful they always have very good objects. Please forgive me, and let us sit on the sofa and have a nice talk together such as we should have had last night.’

“My soul shouted with joy within me, and I said to myself: ‘We shall have the nice talk we should have had last night, but it shall be the talk you wanted then, and not the one you ask for now.’

“‘Now, then,’ said she, when we had seated ourselves, ‘let us go to work to make experiments with your tube. I am so glad you do not feel about it as I thought you would.’

“‘I did not bring it,’ I said.

“‘Oh, what a pity!’ interrupted Mary.

“‘No,’ said I; ‘it is not a pity. It did not work as I expected it would, and there is no use in talking any more about it. I placed great hopes in it, and I had a particular reason for wanting to tell you all about it.’ Then I began and bravely told her all about it, that is, all that justice and kindness would permit me to tell. In the conversation which ensued, which was a very happy exchange of sentiment, it was wonderful how that translatophone was put into the background.

“A great deal of what Mary said in answer to my passionate avowals she had already said to me in Burmese. But the fact that those straightforward, honest words, fresh from a true woman’s heart, and spoken only for the satisfaction of her own frank and impetuous nature, had come to me before in plain English she did not imagine, nor did I ever allow her to imagine. This secret of her soul I always regarded as something that came to me in involuntary confidence, and I always respected that confidence.”

“Were you never sorry?” asked the Daughter of the House, when the Old Professor ceased.

“No,” he said thoughtfully; “I have never been sorry for what I did. I had a very happy life with my Mary–a life far happier than any wonder-exciting invention could have given me.”

“Was it fair to the world to destroy an instrument that might have been of great advantage to science?” ventured John Gayther, hesitatingly.

“It is not easy,” said the Old Professor, “to decide between what we owe to the world and science, and what we owe to ourselves. You see, I decided in favor of myself. Possibly another man would have decided in favor of the invention.”

“Not if he were desperately in love,” said the Master of the House.

“All those fine-spun feelings were unnecessary,” said the Next Neighbor. “If you had not confused your mind with them you would have seen clearly enough that the first idea which came into your head was the proper one to act upon. It would have been no terrible deception if you had taken the instrument to Mary without the little machine and talked English with her. Later you could have told her you had the invention and you could use it. By that time she would have forgotten that she ever had made that Burmese speech, and would have been glad of the fame and fortune the machine would surely have brought.”

The Old Professor looked pained. “I do not deny that some such after-thoughts troubled my mind occasionally for some years. But who can say anything of the ‘might have been’? The instrument might have failed, after all; or the information gained have proved not worth the hearing; or–“

Here there was an unlooked-for interruption. The red thrush suddenly burst into song from the midst of the lilac-bushes, and the whole company listened spellbound with delight while the little creature filled the air with melody and sweetness.

When the song ceased, the Professor remarked: “My translatophone would have been worse than useless here. If I could have heard those words I should have lost that delicious melody. Doubtless the words were commonplace enough, but the melody was divine. And it was easy to interpret the spirit of it. It was a song of joy for all that is pleasant, and bright, and happy in this world.”