and clogged and cloyed with passion,
reached some hitherto untouched string within her heart, and with
resistless power twanged it so that the vibration of it shook her
entire being, and left her quivering and breathless, the tears in her
eyes, her hands clasped till the knuckles whitened.

She felt all at once as though a whole new world were opened to her.
She stood on Pisgah. And she was ashamed and confused at her ignorance
of those things which Corthell tactfully assumed that she knew as a
matter of course. What wonderful pleasures she had ignored! How
infinitely removed from her had been the real world of art and artists
of which Corthell was a part! Ah, but she would make amends now. No
more Verdi and Bougereau. She would get rid of the "Bathing Nymphs."
Never, never again would she play the "Anvil Chorus." Corthell should
select her pictures, and should play to her from Liszt and Beethoven
that music which evoked all the turbulent emotion, all the impetuosity
and fire and exaltation that she felt was hers.

She wondered at herself. Surely, surely there were two Laura Jadwins.
One calm and even and steady, loving the quiet life, loving her home,
finding a pleasure in the duties of the housewife. This was the Laura
who liked plain, homely, matter-of-fact Mrs. Cressler, who adored her
husband, who delighted in Mr. Howells's novels, who abjured society and
the formal conventions, who went to church every Sunday, and who was
afraid of her own elevator.

But at moments such as this she knew that there was another Laura
Jadwin--the Laura Jadwin who might have been a great actress, who had a
"temperament," who was impulsive. This was the Laura of the "grand
manner," who played the role of the great lady from room to room of her
vast house, who read Meredith, who revelled in swift gallops through
the park on jet-black, long-tailed horses, who affected black velvet,
black jet, and black lace in her gowns, who was conscious and proud of
her pale, stately beauty--the Laura Jadwin, in fine, who delighted to
recline in a long chair in the dim, beautiful picture gallery and
listen with half-shut eyes to the great golden organ thrilling to the
passion of Beethoven and Liszt.

The last notes of the organ sank and faded into silence--a silence that
left a sense of darkness like that which follows upon the flight of a
falling star, and after a long moment Laura sat upright, adjusting the
heavy masses of her black hair with th