m his personal attraction for her--could
have been allotted to him for such an occasion. Violet's sunny
presence, her clever criticisms of the acting and singing--which he had
learned of old to expect--promised for him a thoroughly enjoyable
evening. His heart took courage; was it possible that this charming
girl really preferred him--a man who had to make his way in the world,
and work hard to provide a home for her such as befitted her hopes and
ambitions--to this rich man's only son, who had it in his power to give
her at once wealth, position, and admiration?

The first act was over. They both had been charmed with what they had
seen and heard, and it was pleasurable to compare impressions and to
anticipate further gratifying experiences. The theater was warm, and
Violet unwound from her neck a lace scarf which she had been wearing.
Pinned to the bosom of her pretty mauve dress was a tiny spray of dull
green leaves.

"What have you there?" he asked all unthinkingly.

But before she could answer he knew, and a wave of mingled remorse,
shame, and self-condemnation swept over his soul.

"What is it? Why, shamrock, of course!"

"Shamrock!" was all he could falter lamely in reply.

"Yes, shamrock. Queen Alexandra set the fashion, you know. Every one
who wants to do the correct thing wears shamrock today. But of course
you are a Scotchman; you probably have no idea what day it is! So I
don't mind instructing you. It's St. Patrick's Day."

He dare not speak. She took his silence and his rapt gaze on the
little spray of green as token of his admiration of her.

"Perhaps," she rattled on lightly, "you never heard of Patrick, or if
you did, you are inclined to share the modern opinion that 'there never
was no sich a person'--to quote an immortal! If you were an Irishman I
should not dare to whisper such a thing; but a canny Scot could have no
regard for Patrick, even should he believe in him ever so much!"

Bernard kept his self-control, though he was deadly pale as he spoke.

"If it is so correct to wear it, you might give me a bit of it."

Smilingly she complied. He placed it in his buttonhole with what must
have seemed to her elaborate care. Luckily the curtain rose, and he
was free to indulge his thoughts.

Oh, it was almost sacramental--that tiny sprig! How it called up dead
memories--memories of the old land, of his dear ones now gone, of his
boyhood's simple faith!

"If you were an Irishma