glimpse of the stage. It was set for a garden; at the back and in the
distance a chateau; on the left a bower, and on the right a pavilion.
Before the footlights, a famous contralto, dressed as a boy, was bowing
to the audience, her arms full of flowers.

"Too bad," whispered Corthell to Laura, as they followed the others
down the side-aisle to the box. "Too bad, this is the second act
already; you've missed the whole first act--and this song. She'll sing
it over again, though, just for you, if I have to lead the applause
myself. I particularly wanted you to hear that."

Once in the box, the party found itself a little crowded, and Jadwin
and Cressler were obliged to stand, in order to see the stage. Although
they all spoke in whispers, their arrival was the signal for certain
murmurs of "Sh! Sh!" Mrs. Cressler made Laura occupy the front seat.
Jadwin took her cloak from her, and she settled herself in her chair
and looked about her. She could see but little of the house or
audience. All the lights were lowered; only through the gloom the
swaying of a multitude of fans, pale coloured, like night-moths
balancing in the twilight, defined itself.

But soon she turned towards the stage. The applause died away, and the
contralto once more sang the aria. The melody was simple, the tempo
easily followed; it was not a very high order of music. But to Laura it
was nothing short of a revelation.

She sat spell-bound, her hands clasped tight, her every faculty of
attention at its highest pitch. It was wonderful, such music as that;
wonderful, such a voice; wonderful, such orchestration; wonderful, such
exaltation inspired by mere beauty of sound. Never, never was this
night to be forgotten, this her first night of Grand Opera. All this
excitement, this world of perfume, of flowers, of exquisite costumes,
of beautiful women, of fine, brave men. She looked back with immense
pity to the narrow little life of her native town she had just left
forever, the restricted horizon, the petty round of petty duties, the
rare and barren pleasures--the library, the festival, the few concerts,
the trivial plays. How easy it was to be good and noble when music such
as this had become a part of one's life; how desirable was wealth when
it could make possible such exquisite happiness as hers of the moment.
Nobility, purity, courage, sacrifice seemed much more worth while now
than a few moments ago. All things not positively unworthy became
her