One night, just as the last notes of that overture had been struck on the piano, the door opened - it was at Guildford - someone came in with a newspaper - "MENDELSSOHN is dead." "Dead!" echoed the girl who had been playing the treble, her hand falling from the white keys as though suddenly paralysed "dead!" She rose from the piano and walked to the other end of the room. I was watching her. I had desolate thoughts of my own. "I shall never see him now" I thought; "he will make no more music “The girl came back. She was silent and agitated; she could not control her emotion, and she left the room hurriedly. Others were there, but none seemed to feel it as she did, or as I did. It was news to them; to us it was a calamitous, irreparable, personal loss. Boys don't weep on these occasions, but I had my own thoughts, and I could understand another's.