quite beyond our ken is ever in control.

And one evening, despondent, aimless, and feeling life a hopeless fight
and Fate against him, Winn Hardy drifted into the "Alhambra."

No knowledge of the star that nightly blazed there had reached him, and
if he had read of her, it was as of others who were noticed by the press
and unknown to him. He came in, as he entered other theatres, on a
reporter's pass, privileged to take a seat if not occupied, or else
stand. In this case, it seemed the latter, for the house was packed and
a fringe of men circled the foyer. The boxes were also filled; and as
Winn glanced across to them, there in one, dressed in evening gown, her
arms and shoulders bare, and slowly fanning herself, sat Ethel Sherman.
And with her--Simmons!

It was nothing to Winn, of course, and yet it awoke disgust.

The usual vaudeville acts were on in turn, and Winn, somewhat weary with
life, and watching one particular box more than the stage, was about to
leave when suddenly a wild burst of applause swept over the house, and
there, just tripping on to the stage, bowing and smiling as she came
was--Mona!

For one instant his heart stopped beating.

Great Heavens, could it be possible, or was this some insane dream! He
gasped for breath.

The house seemed to twist and turn.

And then, as he leaned against a pillar to steady himself, a hush came.

And what a picture stood before him!

Not the half-developed, ill-clad girl who had sat with him in the cave!
Not the timid child with wondering eyes, looking up to him as a superior
being! Not the gentle Mona, the sweet flower, awaiting his hand. Oh, no!

Instead, a proud and beautiful woman, erect and smiling, with conscious
power. A stately creature with rounded arms, dimpled throat, and perfect
shoulders like marble, emerging from the soft white silk that trailed
upon the stage. And in the crowning coils of hair, black as night, a
single pink rosebud, half open, and in her hand the same old brown
violin!

Then bowing to right and left, as she swept that vast audience with her
eyes, while the storm of applause continued, she raised it to her chin.

Not a breath, not a whisper now, as the matchless voice of her music
rippled forth, tinkling like tiny bells on a mountain side, murmuring
like a brook in forest stillness, sweet as a bird singing in the
sunlight.

And when she had held that vast throng spellbound, entranced,
breathless, until the last exquisit