ctacles. "My name is Marigny."

Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music.

"How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a
friendship for this gentle preceptor.

"Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious
voice," he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is!
Rare,--wonderful. But you, sir,--you are engaged to her?"

"We were--we are engaged," says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion.
"But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but
did not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if I
lived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----"

He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent
impatience.

"You have spoiled her song," says the Italian, regretfully. "And she
was in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping and
applause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciate
even her failures!"

"Can I see her?"

"I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then
madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,--your face is
not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn
to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from
my word without her consent."

"The fates are against me," says Luttrell, drearily.

Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night,
paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment.

At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle,
making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with
little hope for what may come.

But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer,
and the crowd round the door is immense.

Insensibly, in spite of his efforts, he finds himself less near the
entrance than when first he took up his stand there; and just as he is
trying, with small regard to courtesy, to retrieve his position, there
is a slight murmur among those assembled, and a second later some one,
slender, black-robed, emerges, heavily cloaked, and with some light,
fleecy thing thrown over her head, so as even to conceal her face, and
quickly enters the cab that awaits her.

As she places her foot upon the step of the vehicle a portion of the
white woolen shawl that hides her features falls back, and for one
instant Luttrell catches sight of the pale, beautiful face that, waking
a