the opera which inspired their interest, for the
subtle spell of similarity seemed to arouse the sympathy of kindred
taste. Bright phrases and pleasing words flashed between them, and
quickly another act passed. Again the people rose and talked, again
visitors came to the box and uttered conventional insipidities. Finally
Roswell Sanderson himself returned. He had passed the evening in the
manager's office with some friends, but his wife did not even express a
curiosity to know it. The curtain rose on the last act. "Come," said
Wainwright to Duncan, "we must go back to our seats. Good-night, Mrs.
Sanderson." "Good-night, Mr. Grahame." "_A demain_," said Duncan, and he
was off. Another act of the opera was rendered, then the great house was
slowly emptied, and hundreds of carriages bore their occupants away. The
lights went out, the weary artists hurried home, the Auditorium was left
cold, silent and deserted.

CHAPTER V.

A CHALLENGE.

Marion Sanderson's surroundings kept her in a continual state of
irritation. Her fancy created an ideal life with harmonious environments
and sympathetic friends, but the reality was what she termed "an utterly
commonplace existence." From early childhood her parents and
acquaintances had jarred upon her, so that her fanciful mind had carried
on incessant warfare with her prosaic surroundings. Her father and
mother were respectable representatives of practical Calvinism, who,
endeavoring to make their child a pillar of the Church, had persistently
combated her natural tendencies. For days at a time, during her younger
years, the poor child would obediently follow the routine of prayer
prescribed for her until worn out by the drastic Scotch tenets; then
rebellious tears would flow, and she would permit some natural
sentiments to escape from her impulsive heart. Such outbursts most
frequently occurred on Sunday, and they invariably called from her
mother's lips the time-tried reproof: "I think, Marion, you forget the
day. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy." Resentful and disgusted
the child would expostulate, only to be frigidly denounced as one
possessed of an evil spirit; then she would rush to her room and remain
for hours sobbing and yearning for sympathy. "Fox's Book of Martyrs,"
"The Church at Home and Abroad," and "Baxter's Saints' Rest" were her
literary diet, but she managed to devour, surreptitiously, romance after
romance, and her greatest pleasure was to live