Ronald Valchester thought after he had left the presence of his lost love that day that he would not attend the opera again at night.

But he had promised his mother, who had just arrived in New York that morning, to accompany her, and he had also engaged the same box with Walter and Violet Earle, so it was almost impossible for him to remain away.

When the vast theater rang with the wild plaudits that greeted the queen of song, he was in his place by his mother's side, and his eyes saw nothing clearly but the one face that had filled his heart for years—his ears heard nothing but the silvery voice that carolled its songs to the world now, but which long ago—it seemed years and years, measured by his pain—had sung to him alone beneath the blossoming apple boughs, while her heart had thrilled within him at the sweetness of the strain.

How like and how unlike was the brilliant prima donna of to-night, to the pretty, simple girl of three years ago. The love-light that had beamed in those dark eyes then was so different from their quiet sadness now. As she stood there in her costly robes and gleaming jewels, while fragrant flowers rained at her feet, and the rapturous applause thundered over her head, her beauty was peerless.

Yet no smile curved the rich, red lips as she bent her graceful head, though the lashes swept low on the cheek that for a moment wore a crimson flush like the sunset glow.

There was no gladness on the beautiful face, and yet it was not cold or indifferent.

It was only touched on the fair, low brow, in "the dark—dark eyes," and on the arched, crimson lips with "the sadness of thought."

Walter Earle gazed on the singer, too, with his heart in his eyes. He believed that Madame Dolores was Jaquelina Meredith. The conviction grew upon him.

And Violet, sitting by her brother's side, a fair and graceful figure in blue velvet and pearls, on which many eyes gazed admiringly, watched that slender, stately figure, and listened to the musical voice with untold feelings of horror and despair.

When the curtain was rung down on the first act, stately Mrs. Valchester leaned over to murmur to Violet:

"My love," she said, "the prima donna reminds me of some one I have seen before; but I cannot exactly recollect where."

"Really?" said Violet, with an air of languid interest, but she fluttered her fan nervously and did not try to enlighten the lady.

But Walter Earle had heard the whisper, too. He spoke impulsively:

"Mrs. Valchester, I will tell you of whom she reminds you. She is like—Miss Meredith."

"Oh, yes—yes," Mrs. Valchester assented, quickly, "but it cannot be that—that——" she stopped and looked at Walter, startled out of her usual quiet self-possession.

Walter answered, readily:

"The resemblance struck us all, Mrs. Valchester. I, for one, believe that it is little Lina herself. She had a wonderful voice."

"I thought—thought every one believed that she was dead, or that Gerald Huntington had carried her off again," stammered the lady.

"Every one must have been mistaken," said Walter. "I think there can scarcely be a doubt that Madame Dolores is only the stage name of Jaquelina Meredith."

"Ronald, what do you think?" the lady asked, looking up half timidly into the face of her son.

He had stood by her chair, pale and silent as a statue, hearing every word but taking no part in the conversation. He looked down at her now and answered in a low, quiet voice:

"It is Lina herself."

"Are you sure?" cried Walter.

"I am quite sure," Ronald answered.

Then he saw that they were all looking at him inquiringly, and nerved himself to explain.

"I called on Dolores to-day," he said, "and she frankly admitted her identity."

He did not notice the white anguish that came over Violet's face. He was startled by the gladness that shone in her brother's eyes. It was a revelation to him. But the next moment he heard the sound of a fall. They all turned and saw that Violet had slipped out of her chair and lay on the floor with closed eyelids and a deathly face.

"Violet has fainted," cried Mrs. Valchester.

She had fainted, and when she regained consciousness, it was only to bury her face on Walter's breast, and whisper sadly:

"Take me away."

He carried her home, and when they were gone, Mrs. Valchester looked at her son.

"Ronald, do you know what Violet's fainting meant? she asked, gravely.

"It was too warm, I think," said the unconscious poet.

"Oh, how blind you are, Ronald!" exclaimed his mother.