s only
something of you that has become a part of me, and made me to be born
again. So when I offer myself to you, I am only bringing back to you
the gift you gave me for a little while. I have tried to keep it for
you, to keep it bright and sacred and un-spotted. It is yours again now
if you will have it."

There was a long pause; a group of men in opera hats and white gloves
came up the stairway close at hand. The tide of promenaders set towards
the entrances of the theatre. A little electric bell shrilled a note of
warning.

Laura looked up at length, and as their glances met, he saw that there
were tears in her eyes. This declaration of his love for her was the
last touch to the greatest exhilaration of happiness she had ever
known. Ah yes, she was loved, just as that young girl of the opera had
been loved. For this one evening, at least, the beauty of life was
unmarred, and no cruel word of hers should spoil it. The world was
beautiful. All people were good and noble and true. To-morrow, with the
material round of duties and petty responsibilities and cold, calm
reason, was far, far away.

Suddenly she turned to him, surrendering to the impulse, forgetful of
consequences.

"Oh, I am glad, glad," she cried, "glad that you love me!"

But before Corthell could say anything more Landry Court and Page came
up.

"We've been looking for you," said the young girl quietly. Page was
displeased. She took herself and her sister--in fact, the whole scheme
of existence--with extraordinary seriousness. She had no sense of
humour. She was not tolerant; her ideas of propriety and the amenities
were as immutable as the fixed stars. A fine way for Laura to act,
getting off into corners with Sheldon Corthell. It would take less than
that to make talk. If she had no sense of her obligations to Mrs.
Cressler, at least she ought to think of the looks of things.

"They're beginning again," she said solemnly. "I should think you'd
feel as though you had missed about enough of this opera."

They returned to the box. The rest of the party were reassembling.

"Well, Laura," said Mrs. Cressler, when they had sat down, "do you like
it?"

"I don't want to leave it--ever," she answered. "I could stay here
always."

"I like the young man best," observed Aunt Wess'. "The one who seems to
be the friend of the tall fellow with a cloak. But why does he seem so
sorry? Why don't he marry the young lady? Let's see, I don't remember
his na