y. Allons, let us play out the little plot for
the amusement of that rogue of a Natalushka. And if she does not thank
me--eh bien! perhaps her papa will: who knows?"

Before the overture began that evening, Brand was in his seat in the
stalls; and he had scarcely sat down when he knew, rather than saw, that
certain figures were coming into the box which he had been covertly
watching. The opera was _Fidelio_--that beautiful story of a wife's
devotion and courage, and reward. As he sat and listened, he knew she
was listening too; and he could almost have believed it was her own
voice that was pleading so eloquently with the jailer to let the poor
prisoner see the light of day for a few minutes in the garden. Would not
that have been her prayer, too, in similar circumstances? Then Leonora,
disguised as a youth, is forced to assist in the digging of her own
husband's grave, Pizarro enters; the unhappy prisoners are driven back
to their cells and chains, and Leonora can only call down the vengeance
of Heaven on the head of the tyrant.

At the end of the act Brand went up to the box and tapped outside. It
was opened from within, and he entered. Natalie turned to receive him;
she was a little pale, he thought; he took a seat immediately behind
her; and there was some general talk until the opening of the second act
restored silence.

For him it was a strange silence, that the music outside did not
disturb. Sitting behind her, he could study the beautiful profile and
the outward curve of her dark eyelashes; he could see where here and
there a delicate curl of the raven-black hair, escaping from the mob-cap
of rose-red silk, lay about the small ear or wandered down to the
shapely white neck; he could almost, despite the music, fancy he heard
her breathe, as the black gossamer and scarlet flowers of an Indian
shawl stirred over the shining satin dress. Her fan and handkerchief
were perfumed with white-rose.

And to-morrow he would be in Wolverhampton, amidst grimy streets and
dirty houses, in a leaden-hued atmosphere laden with damp and the fumes
of chimneys, practically alone, with days of monotonous work before him,
and solitary evenings to be spent in cheerless inns. What wonder if this
seemed some brief vision of paradise--the golden light and glowing
color, the soft strains of music, the scent of white-rose?

Doubtless Natalie had seen this opera of Fidelio many a time before; but
she was always intently interested in m