Madame Vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. Her beauty and her singing made her the wonder of the world. Royalty delighted to honor her. One evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her lovely lips—people were almost wild over her—they had called her until they were tired. Popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. And then the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. Royal lips praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. Her triumph was at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "Crown Diamonds." Her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she bad electrified the audience as no other artiste living could have done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. When she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of delight.

That evening crowned her "Queen of Song." No one who saw her ever forgot her. The next morning the papers raved about her; they prophesied a new era for music and for the stage; it was, perhaps, the most triumphant night of her great career. She had the gift which makes an actress or a singer; she could impress her individuality on people; she made a mark on the hearts and minds of those who saw her that was never effaced; her gestures, her face, her figure, her magnificent attitudes stood out vivid and clear, while they lived distinct from any others.

"Where royalty smiles, other people laugh," says the old proverb. No sooner was it known that the warmest praise kindly and royal lips could give had been given to Madame Vanira than she became at once the darling of the world of fashion.

Invitations poured in upon her, the most princely mansions in London were thrown open to her; the creme de la creme of the elite sought her eagerly; there was nothing like her; her beauty and her genius inthralled every one. The time came when she was the most popular and the most eagerly sought after woman in London, yet she cared little for society; her art was the one thing she lived for, and her friendship with Lord Chandos. One day she said to him:

"I have never seen Lady Marion. What is she like?"

He noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of blondes as Lady Chandos, or as "your wife," but always as Lady Marion.

This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled him with the question:

"What is Lady Marion like?"

"Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers."

"I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember seeing my lady. I—I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful.

"Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?"

A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away.

"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she not?"

"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words."

Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.

"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written."

"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are smiling. What amuses you?"

"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the thought I smiled over was not amusing."

"What was it?"

"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"

"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I shall be only too delighted."

Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem:

"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some day in a shroud."

"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.

She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.

"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything; nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."

He smiled half sadly at her.

"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.

"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some day," she said.

Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.

"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you never had a dull thought."

"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered. Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul the more one suffers. I have understood more of human nature since I have tried to represent the woes of others."

He glanced at her with sudden interest.

"Which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked.

"I can hardly tell you. I like Norma very much—the stately, proud, loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch, who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make, who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. All the passion and power in my nature rises to that character."

"That is easily seen," he replied. "There have been many Normas, but none like you."

Her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him!

"And then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of passion and despair, the noble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she loves finds that she has a rival—a young, beautiful, beloved rival." She clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "My whole soul rises to that," she continued; "I understand it—the passion, the anguish, the despair!"

His dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her.

"Who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel of genius in you?"

"You are very good to call it genius," she said. "I always knew I had something in me that was not to be described or understood—something that made me different from other people; but I never knew what it was. Do you know those two lines:

"I think the passion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains and joys of others. There is another opera I love—'L'Etoile du Nord.' The grave, tender, grand character of Catherine, with her passionate love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. There is no love without madness."

A deep sigh from her companion aroused her, and she remembered that she was on dangerous ground; still the subject had a great charm for her.

"If I ever wrote an opera," she said, "I should have jealousy for my ground-work."

"Why?" he asked, briefly.

"Because," she replied, "it is the strongest of all passions."

"Stronger than love?" he asked.

"I shall always think they go together," said Leone. "I know that philosophers call jealousy the passion of ignoble minds; I am not so sure of it. It goes, I think, with all great love, but not with calm, well-controlled affection. I should make it the subject of my opera, because it is so strong, so deep, so bitter; it transforms one, it changes angels into demons. We will not talk about it." She drew a little jeweled watch from her pocket. "Lord Chandos," she said, "we have been talking two hours, and you must not stay any longer."

When he was gone she said to herself that she would not ask him any more questions about Lady Marion.