tter from
Honolulu; two months since she had written to Sibyl. On a blue day of
spring, when despondency lowered upon her, and all occupation, all
amusements seemed a burden, she was driven to address her friend on the
other side of the world, to send a cry of pain and hopelessness to the
dream-island of the Pacific.

'What is the use of working at music? The simple truth is, that since I
left England I have given it up. I am living here on false pretences; I
shall never care to play the violin again. What sort of a reception
could I expect from an English audience? If I took another name, of
course it would get known who I was, and people would just come to
stare at me--pleasant thought! And I have utterly lost confidence in
myself. The difficulties are great, even where there is great talent,
and I feel I have nothing of the kind. I might toil for years, and
should do no good. I feel I am not an artist--I am beaten and
disgraced. There's nothing left but to cry and be miserable, like any
other girl who has lost her money, her hopes, everything. Why don't you
write to me? If you wait till you get this, it will be six or seven
weeks before I could possibly hear. And a letter from you would do me
so much good.'

Some one knocked at her door. She called '_Herein_!' and there appeared
a little boy, the child of her landlady, who sometimes ran errands for
her. He said that a gentleman was asking to see her.

'_Ein Deutscher_?'

'_Nein. Ein Englander, glaub'ich, und ein schnurriges Deutsch ist's,
das er verbricht_!'

Alma started up, shut her unfinished letter in the blotting-case, and
looked anxiously about the room.

'What is his name? Ask him to give you his name.'

The youngster came back with a card, and Alma was astonished to read
the name of 'Mr. Felix Dymes'. Why, she had all but forgotten the man's
existence. How came he here? What right had he to call? And yet she was
glad--nay, delighted. Happily, she had the sitting-room (shared with
her art-studying friend) to herself this morning.

'Bring him up here,' she said to the boy hurriedly, 'and ask him to
wait a minute for me.'

And she escaped to make a rapid change of dress. For Alma was not like
Sibyl Carnaby in perpetual regard for personal finish; she dressed
carelessly, save when the occasion demanded pains; she liked the ease
of gowns and slippers, of loose hair and free throat; and this taste
had grown upon her during the past months. But she did n