ul," urged Ellenora, who looked years younger and
almost handsome. Paul's comment was not original but it was sound: "You
are a born New York girl and no mistake." He took her to luncheon when
they reached the city and in the afternoon she went to a few old
familiar shops, felt buoyant, and told herself that she would never
consent to live in Philadelphia, as inelastic as brass. Alone she had a
hasty dinner at the hotel--Paul had gone to dine with his mother--and
noted in the paper that there was no postponement of the Vibert concert.
The evening was cool and clear, and with a singular sensation of
lightness in her head she went up to the hall in a noisy Broadway
car....

Her heart beat so violently that she feared she was about to be ill;
intense excitement warned her she must be calmer. All this fever and
tremor were new to her, their novelty alarmed and interested her.
Accustomed since childhood to time the very pulse-beats of her soul,
this analytical woman was astounded when she felt forces at work within
her--forces that seemed beyond control of her strong will. She did not
dare to sit downstairs, so secured a seat in the top gallery, meeting
none of Arthur's musical acquaintances. She eagerly read the programme.
How odd "Vibert" seemed on it! She almost expected to see her own name
follow her husband's. Arthur Vibert and Ellenora, his wife, will play
his own--their own--concerto for piano and orchestra!

She laughed at her conceit, but her laugh sounded so thin and miserable
that she was frightened....

Again she looked at the programme. After the concerto overture
"Adonais"--Vibert loved Shelley and Keats--came the piano concerto, a
group of songs--the singer's name an unfamiliar one--and finally the
symphonic poem. The symphonic poem! What did she see, or were her eyes
blurred?

"Symphonic Poem 'The Zone of the Shadow'. For explanatory text see the
other side." Sick and trembling she turned the page and read "The
Argument of this Symphonic Poem is by Ellenora Vibert."

THE ZONE OF THE SHADOW

To the harsh sacrificial tones of curious shells wrought
from conch let us worship our blazing parent planet! We
stripe our bodies with ochre and woad, lamenting the decline
of our god under the rim of the horizon. O! sweet lost days
when we danced in the sun and drank his sudden rays. O!
dread hour of the Shadow, the Shadow whose silent wings
drape the world in gray,