e note had vibrated in their hearts,
and bowed again once more, a tornado of sound burst forth. While they
cheered and shouted, adown each aisle ushers hurried with costly flowers
and wreaths, and baskets and bunches of them were tossed upon the stage
like so many leaves.

Then Winn saw Ethel Sherman rise in her box and throw the great bunch of
orchids she had held into the pile at Mona's feet.

And then that queen in white raised her violin once more. And once
again, as many times before, the old love song that has thrilled the
world for centuries carried Winn's heart back to the cave on Rockhaven
and the twilight hour when its voice of undying love had mingled with
the ocean requiem.

Lost was he now to the time and place and that spellbound audience; lost
to the burst of applause that again shook the very building, to the men
who cheered, the women who wept. Lost to all and everything except his
own heartache.

And as he brushed his eyes free from the mist that had gathered, and
turned away, it was in utter despondency and humiliation, believing his
love hopeless now, and forgiveness from Mona impossible.

The next morning, reading the double-leaded headlines announcing the
farewell appearance of this peerless queen of melody and the columns of
fulsome praise that followed, only increased that feeling. Her laurels
had been won, her crown secured, and now his love would be a worthless
toy in her estimation.

All that was left was to see her, if he could, and beg her forgiveness.

But even this was denied him.

"I'm a friend of Miss Hutton's," he said to the "Alhambra" manager early
that day, "and I wish to obtain her address."

"I've no doubt of it," replied the man, in a sneering tone; "lots of her
admirers have wanted it, and kept on wanting it for all me."

"But I am a friend of hers," persisted Winn, his ire rising, "and I wish
to see her."

"Well, go hunt for her," came the insolent answer. "She's in the city;
but her address is her private property, and you don't learn it from
me." And he turned away.

And Winn did likewise, too angry for further parley.

And that night, impelled a little by penitence and more by despondency,
he called on Ethel Sherman.

"How did you enjoy Scotch melodies last evening?" he said gently, not
wishing to seem inquisitive; "I saw you in a box at the 'Alhambra.'"

"Enjoy hardly expresses it," she answered earnestly; "I was spellbound,
enraptured, and moved to tears.