To Mona, reared beyond the world of wealth and social custom, the great city she was now in seemed a monster hive. An endless tangle of crowded streets, of pushing humanity, and towering buildings. The ceaseless din of street cars and rumbling teams, the people who elbowed her aside as they hurried on, the vehicles that halted not when she crosses a street, the grand ladies alighting from their carriages and sweeping by her as if she was without right; and worse than all these, the apes who ogled at her on the street, and even followed her to her home,—each and all became a teacher that taught her self-reliance. She grew to look at the great city as it did at her, without feeling and without interest. They cared not for her right, or her life even; why should she for them? It was the best education possible, and imparted a certain indifference toward everybody and everything, and hardened her, in a way.

Then Fritz, with his little scheme, entered into her education, and one day, after he had asked her to play some of her best selections, a stranger stepped out from an inner room to be introduced to her as the manager of the Alhambra Theatre.

"My friend Geisling has told me about you, Miss Hutton," he said, "and I wished to hear you play as you naturally would, so I asked to be kept in hiding to hear you. You have a decided talent, and if you have the courage, I think you could do a musical turn and do it well. If you will come to the Alhambra to-morrow at ten with my friend here, we will give you a rehearsal."

And Mona felt as if she were at that moment facing an audience!

"I have an ambition to play well, and some day in public," she said faintly, and hardly realizing how it all came about, "but not yet. Oh, no, I wouldn't dare," and she looked helplessly at her teacher.

"Ah, Mees Hutton, but you vill," he said excitedly, "und your fader said you vill, und dat eet vas to be you broveshion, und you vill to blease me try, I dinks," and he placed one hand upon his heart and bowed low.

"Oh, not yet, no! no!" exclaimed Mona, her heart sinking, as she stood face to face with her longed-for opportunity. "I am not ready yet and haven't the courage."

"That is but a mere trifle, Miss Hutton," answered the manager, looking at her saintlike eyes, her sweet face, rounded shoulders, and swelling bosom; and calculating their commercial value for stage purposes to a nicety. "A mere trifle; you have the face and form, you play with exceeding grace and delicate expression, no doubt due to your native talent, and are sure to please. All you need is to forget that you are playing to an audience, and you will win a storm of hands."

Then, like a shrewd man of business, he began politely to question her. Where she came from, who taught her first, and how she came to wish to play in public? In ten minutes he had grasped her entire history.

"It is not necessary," he said finally, to reassure her, "that you make your first appearance at once. Come to the theatre to-morrow and look us over. I feel sure you will succeed and win for yourself a great name. And, by the way, I'd like a photograph of you in evening dress cut low."

Then, as if the matter were all settled, and this new attraction for his vaudeville stage already engaged, he bowed himself out.

And Fritz beamed.

"Ein grand chance, Mees Hutton, an' der great luck you haf, und it vas mein alretty yet," he said, "und you vill got de people crazy mit your blayin', und I vas your teacher!"

And he came near then and there going down on his knees and declaring his passion.

When Mona reached her home she was flushed and trembling with excitement. "Oh, father," she said to Jess, "they want me to play at the theatre, and to come to-morrow to try it with no one there; and he wants my picture, and I am scared half to death," which incoherent speech can easily be excused.

"I don't approve on't an' never have," said her mother, severely. "It ain't a girl's place to be fiddlin', an' 'fore people at that. I don't believe in it."

"Now, Letty," answered Jess, pleasantly, "don't go to discouragin' the gal first go-off. We've threshed that straw all over long 'go, 'n' don't say no more. The time'll cum, 'n' soon, too, when ye'll feel mighty proud of Mona. We'll fix ye up, girlie," he added, addressing her, "with one of them low-cut gowns,—not too low, but jist nice 'n' modestlike,—'n' we'll both o' us be thar to take keer on ye an' fetch flowers home fer ye." And that subject was disposed of.

But Mona scarce closed her eyes in sleep that night, and when, with Jess and her teacher to care for her, she entered the stage door of the Alhambra at ten the next day, a new world opened before her.

Its entrance was a tangle of painted scenery, beautiful on one side, dirty and tobacco-stained on the other. A dozen stage carpenters and helpers were at work with hats on, and never even looked at her. The stage seemed a cold, cheerless barn, as large as the seating part, and a chaos of stage properties of all sorts and shapes. A flat, painted tree leaned against a piano, on top of which was a wooden rock. A roll of carpet lay across a desk, and a coil of dirty rope and an imitation fireplace were on top of an elegant sofa.

Then the manager appeared, coatless, but with hat on.

"Ah, good morning, Miss Hutton," he said, not even noticing Fritz or her uncle; "glad to see you, though it's a little early. Look around and make yourself at home, or I'll show you to a dressing room. We will hear you play presently."

And glad to escape from the cheerless spot, Mona signified that she would wait his bidding in a private room.

It was a half-hour ere he appeared, and Mona's stage training began.

She was instructed how to step out from the wings, where to halt on the stage, how to bow, to step side-wise and backward; and when these lessons had been learned, the manager with a few friends and Jess and her teacher took seats in front, and she walked out once more with her violin. She had expected to be badly scared, but it was all so matter-of-fact, and her deportment considered as of more importance than her playing, that when it came to that it was the easiest of all.

Twice she played the two selections Fritz had decided upon, the first, a medley of Scotch airs, and for an encore, the gem of all she knew—"Annie Laurie."

When she concluded each time, a sincere ripple of applause from the group of men composing her audience encouraged her.

"She'll win 'em," asserted the manager, tersely, when Mona had retired, "if only she can go on once and not wilt."

"I want you to come here daily for a week," he said to Mona, when she was ready to leave, "and get used to this matter. Your playing is excellent, and if you can forget the audience for ten minutes and do as well, you are made!"

But warmer encouragement came from Jess when home was reached that day.

"I'm proud o' ye, girlie," he said, his face glowing and his eyes alight, "I'm proud o' ye, 'n' if ye'll fiddle as ye kin 'n' hold yer head 'fore 'em, I'll shed tears o' joy. We'll rig ye up," he continued, "right away, an' all ye need to do is jist to say to yerself, 'I kin do it,' an' feel it, an' ye will."

How easy to say, but alas, how hard to do!

For a week Mona lived in a trance with only one thought, and that of the awful moment when she must perforce stand alone before that hydra-headed monster—an audience.

Sometimes her heart failed for a moment, and it seemed she could never do it; then a strain of the indomitable will that had come down to her from her Carver ancestors arose, and she said to herself, "I will."

Then back of that lay another point of pride. "Perhaps he will be there to see me," she thought.

For all these months, while she had silently fought her own heartache, Winn Hardy's face and words had been ever present.

All the covert flatteries he had spoken in the cave, all the praises of her playing, the description of the wonderful woman before whom the world bowed, the tender words of love he had uttered, to end with one cold letter of dismissal, and she left to rise above and conquer her own pain alone and unaided, came back now.

It was well that they did.

And when the supreme moment of her trial came, and robed in spotless white, without an ornament, save her matchless eyes, her perfect throat, her rounded arms, she stepped into view of that audience, not for one instant did she falter.

The Alhambra was filled that evening with its usual gathering in search of pleasure. A few hundred blasÉ men and women who had seen everything on the boards of the regular theatres now drifted into this, hoping for a new sensation. Twice as many more store girls whose escorts had brought them there because admission was cheap, and a medley of all sorts, old and young. The saucy balladist in short skirts had sung her song, the soloist in black had picked off his banjo act, the acrobats had leaped and twisted and turned, the magician pulled a stock of worsted balls, a hoopskirt, and a rabbit out of a silk hat borrowed from the audience, and then, after frying an egg in it, returned it unharmed; and the usual vaudeville program was nearing its end when those listless people saw Mona step out from the wings and, without once lifting her eyes to them, bow slightly, and raising her violin, begin playing.

And even as Winn's heart had been touched by the wonderful sweetness of her simple music that day in the cave, so were theirs reached now.

It was not classic, or new, or unheard before—just a medley of old-time Scotch airs that carried the mirth of a merry dance and the mood of tender love. But the mirth and the mood were there, thrilling, quivering, whispering, even as a human voice would speak.

And when the yearning of that medley ended its final appeal, and Mona for the first time raised her eyes to them as she bowed, a storm of applause that fairly shook the building greeted her.

Again and again was it repeated, until, bending her queenlike head, she once more raised her violin.

And now came "Annie Laurie."

Slowly caressing her violin with her face, even as a mother would her babe, Mona played.

And every whispered heartache, every pulse of undying love that that old, old song contains, came forth to reach and thrill the hearts of that audience as naught else could.

When it was ended and Mona bowed low, what a storm came!

Men rose and cheered and women, too, while they brushed the tears away.

Again and again did that wave of stamping and voiced applause arise, till the very roof quivered, and still once again.

And Mona, the poor child, whose will, stronger than love, had carried her through that awful ordeal without a break, now out of sight, lay sobbing in the arms of Jess.

She had won her fame without a flaw, and then, womanlike, had collapsed.