It was a very lonely time for Carlita, those weeks that followed.

Of course she had Olney's letters, letters filled with loving promises and words of hope for the future; but letters are a poor substitute for the presence of one we love. Still, they are infinitely better than nothing. They came every day at first, filled with all those messages so dear to a girlish heart; then when he had gotten further down into Mexico, where the mail service is so deplorably bad, of course they became fewer. She had understood that that must be so before he went.

He told her in many of them of the utterly uncivilized state of the country, almost as uncivilized as if millions of miles existed between it and our own United States, of the long-cloaked, dark-browed, sombrero-crowned men who either walked or slunk through the streets when there were any, or roads when there were not, of the strange, wild, brilliant, many-hued country, that still had its inthralling fascination for all its repulsiveness.

"I almost wish that I had persuaded you to come with me, to give me your sweet companionship, for I am sure that in spite of all the hardships, you would enjoy it all," he wrote in one of his many letters. "Even granting its barbaric state, there is an unconscious poetry in it all that I am sure would delight you, a tropical, luxurious, brilliant beauty that gets into one's veins like wine, or the seductive bewilderment of opium. I am not quite sure but that you would never leave, but live on and on, content, like these people, with only the joy of living, the mere halcyon pleasure of existence—a lotus-eater. And yet there are parts of it so wild, so superbly barbaric almost that the very danger enchants one. I am growing well and strong under the excitement of it all and the desire to get back to you—the craving to feel the touch of your dear lips, to feel the warmth of your beautiful presence. Let us come here on our honeymoon, will you? To the home of your own people. Ah, there is romance enough in the very atmosphere, in the gorgeous color, the song of the birds, the picturesque buildings and customs and country, to make one die from excess of loving."

But after that, as has been said, the letters became less frequent, and there was nothing to do but sit beside the window and watch for the postman—the postman who went to others with his messages of happiness or pain, as it might be, but passed her by. She continued to write, though, every day, just as if she had received her daily effusion.

But never once had Leith Pierrepont's name been mentioned in it all.

It was very lonely. There were times when it seemed almost as if Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica had forgotten her very existence.

They rarely breakfasted before one o'clock in the afternoon, and then Carlita had had her luncheon and had gone out for a walk in the park or downtown to amuse herself by looking in the shop windows—not a very profitable pastime; but what was the poor child to do? By the time she returned they had gone for their drive, an excursion upon which she was never asked, although it was her money that paid for the new luxury of a victoria and pair, not to speak of the sumptuous coachman and footman; but she did not know it and therefore thought nothing of the omission. Unless there was a dinner party, which she never thought of attending, Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica sometimes condescended to dine with her; but that was not often; and if there was no opera in the evening there might be a theater party, with a dinner afterward—a really superb little dinner served by their new French chef, which was practically the greatest attraction the house offered since its reputation for "extraordinary" poker had been established.

For every night, whether there had been an opera or no opera, there was a poker game in progress, and always enough people willing to lose their money to make it profitable as well as interesting.

A few women had joined their ranks, women who rouged their faces and blackened their eyebrows and wore peroxide of hydrogen hair strangely like Mrs. Chalmers' own.

Carlita had seen the party once when the noise was so great that she could not sleep. She crept downstairs, concealed herself from sight, of course, and watched them for a little while, but her disgust was so great that she never did it again, but often covered up her head with the bedclothes in order to keep the sound out.

It was more lonely often than if she had lived all alone, and so no wonder she thought of Leith Pierrepont's words at last and of—Arditi.

She hated the very name of the man at first, because Leith had asked her to study under him, and then by degrees the thought became less repulsive to her, and she finally concluded that in sheer self-defense she would go and see him anyway, just to satisfy herself as to whether she had any voice or not, and to relieve the awful monotony of existence.

She found him—the great artist—in his studio, and he listened kindly to her words and then tried her voice. It was really a superb voice, filled with color and feeling, and a breadth of tone that was wonderful. He was delighted—as who would not have been?—and accepted her as his pupil gladly, almost joyfully.

After that the work fascinated her, and she toiled faithfully, making marvelous strides, assisted perhaps by the very ache in her heart, for there is nothing under heaven that develops the soul like sorrow. I doubt whether a person has any very great amount of soul cultivation until grief has brought it there. And Carlita certainly suffered.

The letters had ceased altogether.

She was not particularly surprised at first, because Olney had told her of the wretched condition of the railroads, and consequently of the mail service; but it couldn't have been quite so bad as all that, to give her no letter in five long, apparently endless weeks.

But she covered up the hurt in her devotion to her new art, and Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica watched her curiously.

"Who could wish for anything better than this?" Jessica asked of her mother one day, as they heard the strains of the piano from the room which, at her request, had been set apart for her own particular use.

"No one—if it could only last," returned Mrs. Chalmers, with a little, only half-suppressed sigh.

But of course it couldn't, and that was the horrible pity of it all.

The music lessons continued, and Arditi forgot the time in his devotion to his new pupil.

"She is a genius!" he said, ecstatically; "the only one that I have discovered in years. She sings because she can't help it. She is like a bird in the forest, except that there is a note of sadness which the bird never acquires, because it has no soul. Some day she will show the world what an artiste is!"

And the full rich tones were floating out one day, glorious as the minor strains of an organ, when suddenly the tone failed, the hands fell upon the key-board with a crash, the lovely face, flushed with devotion to its new master, whitened, and a little cry fell from the drawn lips.

She did not speak—it seemed as if she could not—and after a moment of silence the man who had caused her alarm went forward and put out his hand.

She hesitated a moment, half drew back, then, impelled by some strange power, placed her cold palm in his.

"I am afraid I startled you," he said, in that beautiful voice with which no male voice that she had ever heard could remotely compare. "I asked for Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers, but the servant said they were in the park; then I heard you singing, and begged to be allowed to come here. I see you have taken lessons of Arditi, as I asked you. It was very good of you."

"How—how do you know that I have?" she stammered.

"Ah, who knows the method so well as I? There is not another teacher in America that could do it, and you have put your whole heart and soul into it. God! what a voice it is!"

She threw out her hands deprecatingly.

"What matters it?" she cried, huskily, breathlessly. "Tell me, when did you come? And where is he—Olney? Why does he allow you to come first?"

There was the bitterest pain in her voice—pain, humiliation. Leith half put out his hand, then withdrew it, as if he were not quite sure of what it was that he would do. There was a new light in his eyes—a curious light which she could not quite comprehend. There seemed to be sorrow in it—sorrow for her—and yet it glowed with passion and—and something else—she could not quite make out what, but it frightened her. She drew back and pressed her hands upon her breast.

"Is Olney with you?" she asked, whispering her question in this new fear that had come upon her.

He shook his head.

"You have—left him there," she stammered, helplessly—"left him in that awful place he wrote me of—deserted him—when he needed you?"

The hollow tone of his voice as he replied was not like that with which he had greeted her.

"There was nothing else to do," he answered, simply.

She stared at him for a moment in a silence that was uncanny, then said, hoarsely:

"What is it—you mean? He—he is not—"

"Dead?—yes," he said, completing the sentence for her.

She stood there, just a moment, all the color gone from her countenance, all the light from her eyes, and then she fell forward; it would have been at his feet but that he caught her in his arms.

He turned the white face upward and gazed into it long, lingeringly, lovingly. There was a wistful, yearning look about his mouth, a twitching at the corners that spoke of a suffering to which he had never given expression, and which was no longer to be endured, and then—he couldn't help it, perhaps—he bent his head and pressed his lips upon hers.

She would never know; she was unconscious, he told himself; but as he lifted his head with the wild, passionate expression of self-loathing burning in his eyes, he saw Jessica and her mother standing in the door-way.