Vanity, so hard to dislodge, awoke in him.

We call it vanity at least; perhaps unjustly.

Rather it was the bare sense of his existence prompted him; the sense of his life, the one thing wonderful, to which he scarce clung with a finger.

From his jarred nerves there came a strong sentiment of coming change; whether good or ill he could not say: change, he knew no more--change, with inscrutable veiled face, approaching noiseless.

With the feeling, came the vision of a concert room, the rich hues of instruments, the silent audience, and the loud voice of the symphony.