ing was the most insistent and the most
objectionable. And then this last campaign, with its plans and schemes
for a place in the great Philharmonic which would at once insure not
only her standing in the city, but a New York engagement as well. And
now the moment of triumph had arrived. The letter she held in her hand
was proof of it. She glanced once more at the written page, her eye
falling upon a phrase here and there, "We have succeeded at last--the
Duff Charringtons have surrendered--you only want a chance--here it
is--you can do the part well." She smiled a little. Yes, she knew she
could do the part. "And now let nothing or nobody prevent you from
accepting Mrs. Duff Charrington's invitation for next Saturday. It is a
beautiful yacht and well found, and I am confident the great lady will
be gracious--bring your guitar with you, and if you will only be kind,
I foresee two golden days in store for me." She allowed a smile slightly
sarcastic to curl her lips.

"The doctor is inclined to be poetical. Well, we shall see. Saturday?
That means Sunday spent on board the yacht. I wish they had it made
another day. Margaret won't like it, and Barney won't either."

For a moment or two she allowed her mind to go back to the Sundays spent
in the Manse. She had never known the meaning of the day before. The
utter difference in feeling, in atmosphere, between that day and the
other days of the week, the subduing quiet, the soothing peace, and the
sense of sacredness that pervaded life on that day, made the Sabbaths
in the Manse like blessed isles of rest in the sea of time. Never, since
her two years spent there, had she been able to get quite away from the
sense of obligation to make the day differ from the ordinary days of the
week. No, she was sure Barney would not like it. Still, she could spend
its hours quietly enough upon the yacht.

She picked up another letter in a large square envelope, the address
written in bold characters. "This is the Duff Charrington invitation,
I suppose," she said, opening the letter. "Well, she does it nicely,
at any rate, even if, as Dr. Bulling suggests, somewhat against her
inclination."

Again she sat back in silent dreaming, her eyes looking far away down
the coming years of triumph. Surely enough, the big world was drawing
near to listen. All she had read of the great queens of song, Patti,
Nilsson, Rosa, Trebelli, Sterling, crowded in upon her mind, their
regal courts thronged by