sture with which the coquettish Carmen was wont
to dismiss her lovers; but as she strode down the hill Drusilla herself
was heart-broken, for her coquetry had come to naught. This big Western
boy, this unsophisticated miner, had sensed her wiles and turned them
upon her--how then could she hope to succeed? If her eyes had no allure
for a man like him, how could she hope to fascinate an audience? And
Carmen and half the heroines of modern light opera were all of them
incorrigible flirts. They flirted with servants, with barbers, with
strolling actors, with their own and other women's husbands; until the
whole atmosphere fairly reeked of intrigue, of amours and coquettish
escapades. To the dark-eyed Europeans these wiles were instinctive but
with her they were an art, to be acquired laboriously as she had learned
to dance and sing. But flirt she could not, for Denver Russell had
flouted her, and now she had lost his respect.

A tear came to her eye, for she was beginning to like him, and he would
think that she flirted with everyone; yet how was she to learn to
succeed in her art if she had no experience with men? It was that, in
fact, which her teacher had hinted at when he had told her to go out and
live; but her heart was not in it, she took no pleasure in deceit--and
yet she longed for success. She could sing the parts, she had learned
her French and Italian and taken instruction in acting; but she lacked
the verve, the passionate abandon, without which she could never
succeed. Yet succeed she must, or break her father's heart and make his
great sacrifice a mockery. She turned and looked back at Denver Russell,
and that night she sang--for him.

He was up there in his cave looking down indifferently, thinking himself
immune to her charms; yet her pride demanded that she conquer him
completely and bring him to her feet, a slave! She sang, attired in
filmy garments, by the light of the big, glowing lamp; and as her voice
took on a passionate tenderness, her mother looked up from her work.
Then Bunker awoke from his gloomy thoughts and glanced across at his
wife; and they sat there in silence while she sang on and on, the
gayest, sweetest songs that she knew. But Drusilla's eyes were fixed on
the open doorway, on the darkness which lay beyond; and at last she saw
him, a dim figure in the distance, a presence that moved and was gone.
She paused and glided off into her song of songs, the "Barcarolle" from
"Love Tales of H