he human passions which make this
world our world; the gallery, played upon by anger, vengeance, derision,
triumph, hate, and love; the gallery, which lingers and applauds long
after the fifth curtain, and then goes reluctantly home--to dream. And he
who scorns the gallery is no artist, for there lives the soul of art. We
raise our eyes to it, and to it we dedicate this our play;--and for it we
lift the curtain once more after those in the orchestra have departed.

It is obviously impossible, in a few words, to depict the excitement in
Ripton, in Leith, in the State at large, when it became known that the
daughter of Mr. Flint was to marry Austen Vane,--a fitting if unexpected
climax to a drama. How would Mr. Flint take it? Mr. Flint, it may be
said, took it philosophically; and when Austen went up to see him upon
this matter, he shook hands with his future son-in-law,--and they agreed
to disagree. And beyond this it is safe to say that Mr. Flint was
relieved; for in his secret soul he had for many years entertained a
dread that Victoria might marry a foreigner. He had this consolation at
any rate.

His wife denied herself for a day to her most intimate friends,--for it
was she who had entertained visions of a title; and it was characteristic
of the Rose of Sharon that she knew nothing of the Vanes beyond the name.
The discovery that the Austens were the oldest family in the State was in
the nature of a balm; and henceforth, in speaking of Austen, she never
failed to mention the fact that his great-grandfather was Minister to
Spain in the '30's,--a period when her own was engaged in a far different
calling.

And Hilary Vane received the news with a grim satisfaction, Dr. Tredway
believing that it had done more for him than any medicine or specialists.
And when, one warm October day, Victoria herself came and sat beside the
canopied bed, her conquest was complete: he surrendered to her as he had
never before surrendered to man or woman or child, and the desire to live
surged back into his heart,--the desire to live for Austen and Victoria.
It became her custom to drive to Ripton in the autumn mornings and to sit
by the hour reading to Hilary in the mellow sunlight in the lee of the
house, near Sarah Austen's little garden. Yes, Victoria believed she had
developed in him a taste for reading; although he would have listened to
Emerson from her lips.

And sometimes, when she paused after one of his long silences to glanc