esterday."

"Yes, success is satisfactory, and it is a means to an end in this case.
Marie, my dear one, through all those long years of drudgery I heard of
you only through M. Bois-le-Duc at rare intervals. But, through all that
weary time, I never ceased to think of you, though as one far, far
removed from me. Then you rose to fame and wealth; to me, a poor
struggling artist, further off than ever, and for a time I despaired. You
were feted by the highest in the land, all London was at your feet--what
had I to do with the brilliant prima donna? What claim had I to remind
her of the old days at Father Point, of my life-long devotion? Oh! Marie,
my darling, to keep silence, to think that I might lose you after all,
was almost unendurable. Now, though, I _can_ speak. I, too, have achieved
success as the world counts it. We may now, on that score, meet as
equals. Were it not so, I should keep silence always. Marie, I have loved
you ever since I knew you. I have watched with interest your whole
career, your failures, your successes. I dare not hope my affection is
returned--that is too much--and I must ask pardon for having spoken to
you to-day."

The self-possessed prima donna had been very still while Lacroix spoke,
and sat shading her face with one hand, and, strange to say, endeavoring
to hide the tears which would come in spite of her efforts.

"Marie, speak, my dear one. Have I distressed you? Oh! Marie, I should
not have spoken, only the thought of putting the Atlantic between us
without telling you was too hard, Marie."

"Eugene, why should you put the Atlantic between us?" said Marie, and
something in the expression of her face gave him courage to ask--

"Marie, I am going to Father Point next month. Will you come with me?"

"Yes, Eugene, with you anywhere," placing her hands in his, a look of
perfect rest and peace coming over her sweet, care-worn face.

"Remember, Marie," he said gravely, "it is no small thing I ask--to give
up your place at the opera, to sacrifice the applause of the world and
the pleasing excitement of your life."

"I am tired of it all, Eugene, it is such an empty life."

"And I may be in Canada a whole year--think of it, a year away from
London. You must consider all this, and, my dear one, I am not a rich
man."

"But I am rich," she said laughing, "very rich, and I never was so glad
of it before. Now, have you any more objections to make, for I am
beginning to think you don't wan