e silent. And her heart gave a great bound of excitement when
the curtain rose and she saw the courtyard of the palace with Ferrando
calling to his men.

A first opera or a first play is a memorable event and those are
fortunate whose introduction to the stage is neither trivial nor coarse.
"Trovatore" might have grown a little threadbare to some in the
audience, but to one it was a revelation of splendid scene, of exquisite
melody, of the actor's art. That all this panorama of beautiful color
and costume, of count and troubadour and lovely lady, should be gathered
together under this roof was wonderful; but that it should be set to
such harmony, that human beings clad in kingly robes should sing such
heavenly music, was a miracle. Hertha's eyes grew big and her whole
being responded to the story that was taking place before her on the
spacious stage.

"Deserto sulla terra."

Her love was calling to her, across the continent, across the whole
world, telling of his longing to see her face, his passionate desire to
hold her in his arms again. She heard him in every note of the wonderful
song, and when the voice ceased and the audience began to applaud, she
woke from her dream of his presence with a start of shame that turned to
anger as she heard the frantic clapping and saw the actor drop his part
and bow to the audience. To her it had been reality, but to these people
it was only beautiful singing. But the applause stopped, the play went
on; and Hertha, watching through Leonora's eyes, saw the fate of lovers
whose station in life is not the same; saw the count, glowering,
hateful; heard Leonora plead for the gipsy's son; and in a passion of
excitement, watched the curtain drop upon the two men with swords drawn,
upon the woman lying senseless on the ground.

"Some girl," said Dick when the lights came up and the people, ceasing
their close attention, settled themselves more comfortably in their
seats. "But the guy playing the banjo, I could give him points. If he
doesn't want to die of apoplexy he'd better drop whisky and take to
riding horseback."

"I say, won't you talk to a fellow?" he asked at the intermission
between the third and last acts. "You just sit with your head buried in
that book and all you'll say is how it's going to end. It sounds pretty
crazy to me, burning the wrong baby! But of course, they must do
something to make a story. Don't you want to go out into the hall and
walk?"

It was the secon