The little girl waited at the footlights for--something. She had done
her best for an encore and the silence troubled her. She looked
inquiringly towards the box. There was a movement of the curtains at the
back; a messenger boy came in with flowers; a gentleman leaned over the
railing and motioned to the child. She ran forward, holding up the skirt
of her dress to catch the roses that were dropped into it. She smiled
and said something. The tension in the audience gave a little; there was
a low murmur of approval which increased to a buzz of conversation; the
conductor raised his baton and the child with a courtesy ran off the
stage. But there was no applause.

During the musical intermezzo that followed, the lower proscenium box
was vacated and in the first balcony one among a crowd of students rose
and made his way up the aisle.

"Lien's keller, Champ?" said a friend at the exit, putting a hand on his
shoulder; "I'm with you."

"Not to-night." He shook off the detaining hand and kept on his way. The
other stared after him, whistled low to himself and went down the aisle
to the vacant seat.

At the main entrance of the theatre there was an incoming crowd. It was
not late, only nine. The drawing-card at this hour was a famous Parisian
singer of an Elysee _cafe chantant_. The young fellow stepped aside,
beyond the ticket-office railing, to let the first force of the
inrushing human stream exhaust itself before attempting egress for
himself. In doing so he jostled rather roughly two men who were
evidently of like mind with him in their desire to avoid the press. He
lifted his hat in apology, and recognized one of them as the occupant of
the proscenium box, the gentleman who had given the roses to the little
singer. The other, although in citizen's dress, he saw by the tonsure
was a priest.

The sight of such a one in that garb and that environment, diverted for
the moment Champney Googe's thoughts from the child and her song. He
scanned the erect figure of the man who, after immediate and courteous
recognition of the other's apology, became oblivious, apparently, of his
presence and intent upon the passing throng.

The crowd thinned gradually; the priest passed out under the arch of
colored electric lights; the gentleman of the box, observing the look on
the student's face, smiled worldly-wisely to himself as he, too, went
down the crimson-carpeted incline. Champney Googe's still beardless lip
had curled slight