and subsequent developments justified the blind faith and put his traducers to the blush.

One day the papers announced that Signor De Castro had arrived from Milan. His friends rejoiced, smiled knowingly, and placed themselves upon the qui vive. Then, a fortnight or so later, came the rumor: "De Castro has made another discovery." The newspapers took up the theme, and paragraphs of a purely speculative nature grew in number and size. Further than the mere rumor, however, there was nothing to satisfy the curious. The impressario was wise in his generation. He manufactured public interest by refusing to let the public into his secret. A half truth is a better advertisement than a clean breast, so to speak.

Bit by bit the truth came out in tantalizing fashion. The discovery was a young girl, scarcely out of her teens and unmistakably pretty. She was a violiniste. Her name was Estelle Diment. She had the touch of Remenyi, the technique of Ole Bull, the genius of Paganini, and the power of Urso. She came of the traditional poor but honest parents. De Castro, while passing through the tenement quarter in the vicinity of Houston Street, had heard her play. He had never heard the like before-never in his whole career-and immediately engaged her. He was about to give her to the world.

Then, all this having been imparted by degrees and in diplomatic fashion, reasonable fact became a prey to plausible fiction. The stories told did not agree, and contained but little truth, if any; but they served the purposes of advertisement, as designed by the manager and executed by his press agent. One writer enveloped the discovery in the prismatic hues of romance, and coolly traced her lineage, according to his own brilliant lights, back to Henry IV. of France. Another informed his readers that her parents, still living, were of the commonest stock, and that Estelle was uneducated save in music, which had been her especial gift since childhood's hour. A third spoke feelingly and delicately of her aristocratic family, now greatly reduced in circumstances, and of the natural family

pride which had objected strenuously to her appearance before the public. It was all very interesting and readable, and, as the artist Harley said to Holmes, pleasing fiction of that sort would do the world infinitely less harm than bald, criminal fact. The artist was a philosopher, while Holmes, being a lover, felt that Estelle was cheapened by the process.

Meanwhile, posters were being placed upon the walls; lithographs of a girlish face were being hung in windows, and the musical world was agog. De Castro waited patiently, conscious beforehand that his latest discovery would prove to be the greatest in all his managerial

career.

"She will create a furor," he said to himself for the thousandth time, rubbing his fat hands in keen enjoyment of the prospect. Here, in America, she will be a revelation; in Europe she will be an idol."

Whenever he appeared on Broadway he was accosted here and there by those who saw in his stout, well-set figure and foreign, whiskered face, the personification of promise. They plied him with questions, besieged him with requests. Who was the girl, and was it really true that she was, or had been, this, that, or the other? Where had he hidden her? When and where had he found her? Would he not exhibit her at a professional matinée or private recital? Could not society, by reason of temporary purchase, launch her upon her triumphant career at some exclusive function? To all of these he returned a smiling negative, coupled with a twinkle of his shrewd eyes.

You

"Wait," he would say, carefully stroking the flowing, jet-black side whiskers, which were his especial pride. "Be not impatient. When the proper time comes you shall see her-not before. Where she is that is my affair. What she is that is her affair. may believe whatever the newspapers say, if you like that is your affair. When you hear her play-ah, then you will say that De Castro has not been false to his reputation. One would take her to be Paganini himself, turned into a mere slip of a girl."

That was all the satisfaction he gave

them. He was shrewd, and knew that to show her in advance would be equivalent to breaking the force of her début. The secret of his contributory success was that he kept the edge of anticipation sharpened. Besides, he had never disappointed an audience with the inartistic or the commonplace.

In obedience to his wish, Estelle and Mrs. Randolph secluded themselves, practically, in an uptown hotel, and avoided contact with the public. To this they were not greatly averse, as there was much to be done, and their time was fully occupied. Among other things, there was Estelle's wardrobe to be looked after. It was to be simple, to be sure, in consonance with the youth and modesty of the prospective wearer; but then, it was a woman's wardrobe, and as such demanded all the attention that woman could give it. In her new station, Mam'selle would be expected to appear to the best possible advantage in all respects, and there was call, therefore, for several costumes for evening wear at concerts, modest street costumes, and others, all needed at once.

The money considerately advanced by the impressario at the suggestion of Mrs. Randolph, who had a keen eye to the interests of her charge, was judiciously spent. De Castro, having secured a contract agreeable to his taste, felt that he could afford to be liberal with Estelle, and the amount he gave her enabled them to make the hurried preparations demanded by the exigencies of the situation. Mam'selle's apartments at the hotel were accordingly given over to the needlewomen, who burdened her with the additional fatigue and annoyance of fitting, until one would have thought that she was a prospective bride, enslaved by her trousseau.

The long hours of practice and the demands of the dressmakers so thoroughly engrossed her that she had scarcely time in which to think coherently; but always there were coherent thoughts of Edward Holmes. Often, as she stood like a lay figure while busy hands adjusted the length of a skirt or improved the glove-like fit of a basque, she wondered if her departure had made any difference in his life; if he missed her as she had missed him; if their

paths would meet and unite in futurity. Often, as she stood practising some difficult creation which was to win the plaudits of the world, she promised herself that she would be true to the lover who had never openly avowed his love. Often, too, she asked herself why he had not been to see her. She did not think of his pride, which kept the beggar from the door of the little woman whom music, like some good fairy, had changed into a princess. She could not see the poet and the artist as they sat in the dingy rooms of the unclean tenement; nor could she hear them as they spoke of her.

"Will she forget, I wonder?" Holmes would say, mournfully, as he abstractedly watched the artist's brush, which brought out nature here and there upon the canvas with deft touches.

"She cannot. You have her violin. It was her father's, and, next to you, it is the dearest thing in the world to her.

"But she is going out into the world.” "Why not? Would you cage her in this place, just because you are so fond of her?" Harley inquired, pausing with brush poised. "Woman," he continued, oracularly, "is like a canvas. She needs light. The colors fade in time under the action of the light; sometimes an unfriendly or careless touch leaves an indelible mark; but she has been seen of men, and that is what woman, if we take her word for it, was made for. It is the be-all and end-all of her existence. She pines for the gilt frame, a good place in the Salon of life, and the admiring crowds."

"But she is young, and the world cannot do her any good," said Holmes, gloomily.

ionship, which does not rise above the dead level of the commonplace. Ah, you are fortunate, Holmes. The fire of passion is aflame in your veins, and you balance yourself upon a pinnacle. I would give the rest of my life to be where you are at this moment." Turning again to his easel, he hummed a fragment of some French song as he plied his brush.

"It is delicious," he said, after a little, as he worked. "Your love, with its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, will be your inspiration. Your verses will be read and treasured, because they rise from the heart, like birds from a prison. The song of sorrow or of unrest appeals to the majority with peculiar force, because so many have sorrow and unrest. In after years, when you have reached the years of heart content, or the age of scepticism, which is mine, you will turn your back upon your days, and mourn because you cannot live your youth over again; your verses will be artificial. "Ma jeunesse !' exclaimed the Frenchman, as he stood beside the grave of the woman he loved. It is the cry of all. There is nothing like youth. When I had your present experience, I could paint: the inspiration of love opened the door of the Salon to me. Now, each stroke of my poor brush is a daub, and my atelier is a New York garret. Such is life-and love. One is nothing without the other."

"You, too, have had your romance,' Holmes suggested, his heart warming toward the artist with greater fervor.

"Lives there a natural man who has not? Yes, I have had mine. The woman, or girl, was not such an one as Mam'selle, for she had not genius, and sprang from the Quartier, in which we lived because it was traditional to do so; but Annette had an individuality all her own, and she enthralled me. For six months I was happy."

"And then?"

"And then there came a soldier of the Legion, who should have been in Algiers, like the fellow from historic Bingen," Harley replied, laughing shortly. "He wore a uniform, and you know what that means to a woman. The man does not matter. It is the uniform. Well, Annette went, and

De

THE musical world had refreshed its critical powers, and gone forth for the purpose of praising or condemning the star about to shine with new light. Castro, bowing to this party or that, hastening to greet one social luminary after another, stole a moment to glance comprehensively at the fast-filling rows of boxes and seats, and congratulated himself; for he felt that, unless Estelle failed him-and he had no reason to fear a catastrophe from that sourcethe night would be rendered memorable by the greatest triumph of his life.

The weather was perfect. The response was unanimous. The conditions were most auspicious. Carriage after carriage rolled up to the broad entrance and deposited those whose toilets were small fortunes in themselves, and whose slightest movements were made the theme of columns of newspaper gossip. The boxes were filled with beauty and fashion, represented by women who knew art as they knew etiquette. Men of fame and fortune paused in the foyer to chat a moment about the Street or the political situation. A virtuoso, whose dark face and shaggy beard were familiar to concert-goers, conversed in an animated, foreign fashion with a critic whose pen had the edge of a scalpel or the softness of silk plush, according to the person with whom he was called upon to deal. It was a redletter night for musicians of all grades, those broadly described as amateur, and with each succeeding moment and arrival De Castro felt the thermometer of his hopes recording a greater rise.

The hum of conversation deepened in tone. The overture drowned it for a time; but as the crash of the finale

died away it gathered strength and volume once more, and was only modified when the soprano or the contralto sang. The participants, aside from the star, had been seen and heard again and again, and the world was there in blasé, careless good-nature only because it had been promised something new, something out of the ordinary. It awaited it with ill-concealed impatience. The aria from “Lucia" had been given often with better effect. The "Rhapsodies Hongroises" of Liszt seemed to lack finish, although the player was famous in his way. People in the boxes chatted unflaggingly of many things foreign to the occasion; the others shuffled about, dropped a word or two now and then, and afterwards, with American generosity, applauded the performers whose efforts they had ignored.

"Don't be afraid," whispered De Castro in kindly tones to Estelle, as the girl stood in the wings and awaited the time when she should face the public for the first time.

The argus-eyed public ceased its chatter, faced the stage, and sat in expectant silence, wondering at the slight, girlish figure that had glided from the wings. Clad in simple white, with a flower or two upon her breast, and her hair becomingly arranged, Mam'selle stood, hypnotized by the eyes, dazzled by the lights, half intoxicated by the atmosphere. It was a trying moment; but, fortunately for her, her appearance won those at whose mercy she was, and vigorous applause from one of the balconies, bringing the large audience to its senses, became a storm of welcome.

Looking up involuntarily to see what friend had given her the reception, she saw Harley, with Holmes by his side. The sight brought a smile of recognition to her face and a look of gratitude to her eyes, while fear deserted her; for, with her lover and her sponsor so

near at hand, she felt confident. Besides, she could imagine that she was playing for them alone. The task would be easier with the audience forgotten.

As the orchestra neared the close of the prelude to one of Weniawski's compositions she lifted her violin-a Cremona presented to her by De Castroand rested her chin upon it. From the time her bow touched the strings she was lost to all things, even Holmes and his friend, although she could feel the influence of their deep interest and abiding faith. With the first few notes she won her audience. That is, she appealed to the culture of her listeners and challenged their criticism. They saw at once that hers was not mere mechanical playing, for nature-that is to say, heredity-and genius were evidenced by her method. They were struck with her technique, which was such as to make old musicians stare at the little witch who had contrived to make herself mistress of so difficult an instrument, while her expression was declared to be faultless.

Steadily and accurately she progressed, gliding easily from bar to bar, oblivious to the nods and gestures of those in front; bit by bit she brought out the points of the composition, and then, with a high note as clear as a bell, stopped, and left her hearers in mid-air. A pause. Awake once more and bewildered to again find herself the cynosure of that multitude, Estelle stood hesitant. Then the house rang with bravos and shook with applause, until the creator of the furor, frightened by her triumph, almost ran from the stage.

"A palpable hit,' as Shakespeare says," Harley observed, looking at his red and swollen palms.

Holmes did not speak. His heart was too full. It contained joy for her, fear for himself, with love as the creator of both.

Estelle was received in the wings by De Castro, who could scarcely contain himself.

"Glorious!" he exclaimed, with more enthusiasm than he was in the habit of displaying. "You have won the most critical audience you could

have faced, and in a month you will be the rage. Listen! Urso never won heartier applause in America. Go back to your public, my dear."

Drawing a long breath, as if to restore her strength, Mam'selle glided forth again, intending to bow her acknowledgments; but the applause was so great that she advanced to the centre of the stage and placed her violin in

rest.

The tumult died away, and out of the silence there came the wailing prelude to one of her father's compositions. She had shown them her skill and the brilliancy of her treatment; but now they should understand that the violin was something dearer than a basis of dexterity. De Castro frowned a little as he listened, for he thought it an unwise choice, considering her audience; but as she progressed, and he noted the hush through which the melody crept, like perfume through space, he nodded his head in commendation and his brow cleared.

Holmes sat with his face buried in his hands, for the selection was the one that had stolen into his life-the first he had ever heard her play-and which, discovering it to be his favorite, she had played often to please him. He fancied, as the theme thrilled him with subtle power, that she was again playing it for him; and when he lifted his head and gazed down at her, he found Mam'selle looking straight up at him, a smile curving her lips.

solitude and cast the spell of involuntary sadness. Mam'selle's bow moved tenderly among the minors, and the listener drifted into shadows near the banks of that enchanted stream. The elusive sheen upon the water became the type of promise and opportunityseen, but intangible. The sighs of the breeze were like unto the voices of the past, echoing back across the years and deepening the sadness. The odors of flowers became the incense arising from the ashes of misspent hours. Here and there a tear glistened upon some proud face. Now and then a far-away look lent better expression to the cold eyes of a man of the world.

Thus she played, and thus she enchanted them, until the final note, when, after a moment of unfulfilled expectancy, the public awoke from the revery into which she had led it, rubbed its eyes confusedly and looked sheepish, as if ashamed of having been tricked or charmed into an expression of deep feeling.

After that came the applause. De Castro could not have asked more.

So happy as to be almost hysterical, Estelle ran blindly after leaving the stage, until she was encountered by Mrs. Randolph, who took the girl in her arms and pressed her fondly to her bosom.

66

'Dear, I could not be happier if you were my own daughter!" Mrs. Randolph exclaimed, almost sobbing, as she led Mam'selle to her dressing-room, where the new favorite sank nervelessly into a chair.

Soon came De Castro, his dark face wreathed in smiles, his arms filled with flowers-roses taken from the corsage of many a belle, and flung as tributes to genius.

"You see?" he said.

"They are beautiful," she murmured, gratefully, as he dropped them into her lap. "Who sent them?"

You were so dazed by your success that you did not notice when they were thrown after you. When one can wring such a spontaneous response from the public, nothing more need be asked."

At the close of the concert pencilled congratulations reached her through the kindness of her discoverer. The names