Herr Deichenberg’s concert was but a month away, and Dorothy, despite the hotness of the weather, practiced as she never had before.

After her visit to the studio Herr Deichenberg resumed his comings to Bellvieu. He seemed never to tire descanting on the beauties of the old estate, and in this way won a warm place in the hearts of both Dorothy and Aunt Betty—aside from his many other fine qualities.

Aunt Betty had been delighted at the thought of Dorothy’s appearing at the Herr’s concert.

“His affairs are the finest of their kind given in the city,” she told the girl, “and it is an honor you must not fail to appreciate. The Herr would not have invited you to appear had he not been sure of your ability to uphold his standards.”

The week before the concert Herr Deichenberg came out one morning in a particularly good humor—though, to tell the truth, he seemed always bubbling over with agreeable qualities.

“It iss all arranged,” he told Dorothy—“for de concert, I mean. De theater has been put in readiness, und you should see de decorations. Ah! Vines trailing t’rough de boxes, und de stage just loaded down with palms. Und yet I am not t’rough, I have been offered de loan of some of de finest plants in de city. I tell you, Miss Dorothy, it iss very nice to have friends.”

“It is indeed,” the girl responded. “A little inspiration from them can go a long way toward helping us accomplish our tasks.”

The lesson went unusually well that morning.

Dorothy was practicing certain pieces now, which she was to render at the concert, the selections having been made from among the classics by the Herr professor. There were two pieces, and a third—a medley of old Southern airs—was to be held in readiness, though the music master warned his pupil not to be discouraged if she did not receive a second encore.

The Herr was even more particular than was his wont—if such a thing were possible. The missing of the fraction of a beat—the slightest error in execution or technique—he would correct at once, making her play over a certain bar time and again, until her playing was to his entire satisfaction. Then he would encourage her with a nod of approval, and go on to the next.

But Dorothy did not mind this; rather, she revelled in it. Her heart was in her prospective career as a violinist, and she was willing to undergo any discomfort if she could but attain her ambition.

On the morning before the concert Herr Deichenberg made his last call at Bellvieu—before the event. By this time Dorothy had learned well her lessons, and the Herr required that she run over each piece but once. Her execution was perfect—not a note marred or slurred—and he expressed his satisfaction in glowing terms.

“You vill now take a vell-deserved rest,” he said. “Please do not touch a violin until you arrive at the theater to-morrow evening.”

“I can hardly wait for to-morrow evening to come, Herr,” she replied. The eagerness in her voice caused the music master to smile.

“Ah, but you must not be too anxious, young lady. Better it iss to get de concert off your mind for a vhile. Vhat iss de use of playing de whole affair over in your mind, until you are sick und tired of it? No, no; don’t do it. Vait till you get de reality.”

“As well try to banish my dear Aunt Betty from my thoughts,” was the answer of the smiling girl.

“Ah, vell, vhen you are as old as I, those t’ings vill not vorry you.”

“Ah, but Herr, you are worried yourself—I can see it.”

“Vhat! Me vorried? Oh, my dear young lady, no; my composure is perfect—perfect.”

“You are worrying right now.”

“Over vhat, please?”

“Well, first you are wondering whether the confidence reposed by you in one Miss Dorothy Calvert will be justified when she faces a great audience for the first time in her life. Now, ’fess up, aren’t you, Herr Deichenberg?”

“No, no; I have not de slightest doubt of dat.”

“Then you are worrying because you fear some of the other numbers on the programme will not come up to your expectations. Now, aren’t you?”

“No, no, Miss Dorothy. No; I do not vorry—of course, there iss dat young lady who is to render de piano selections from ‘Faust’—er—yet, I have no cause to vorry. No, no, I—”

Dorothy interrupted with a laugh.

“Your troubled expression as you said that gave you away, Herr. But I suppose it is very bold and impudent of me to tease you about these matters.”

The Herr smiled.

“Oh, you just tease me all you vant—I like it. But really, if I vass vorried, I vould tell you—surely I vould. Er—if dat young lady vill just remember vhat I haf told her, she—”

Again the troubled expression flitted over Herr Deichenberg’s countenance, and Dorothy, seeing that he was really worried though he would not admit it, decided not to tease him further.

He soon took his departure, and the girl rushed away to tell Aunt Betty that the Herr was well satisfied with her work, then to talk incessantly for half an hour about the coming event. The concert was by far the largest affair that had ever loomed up on Miss Dorothy’s horizon, and she naturally could not get it off her mind.

The great opera house in which the concert was to be held was packed with people the next evening.

Dorothy, on the stage, peeping through a little hole in the curtain, saw one of the most fashionable audiences old Baltimore had ever turned out—the largest, in fact, Herr Deichenberg had ever drawn to one of his affairs, though the drawing power of the old professor had always been something to talk about.

Entering the stage entrance early in the evening, dressed in an elaborate white evening gown, made expressly for this occasion at one of the great dressmaking establishments, Dorothy had deposited her violin in her dressing-room and sallied forth to view the wonders of Fairyland—for such the stage, with its many illusions and mysteries, seemed to her.

She took great care to keep out of the way of the stage hands, who rushed back and forth, dragging great pieces of scenery over the stage as if they were but bits of pasteboard. Drops were let down, set pieces put in place, until, right before the eyes of the girl, a picture, beautiful indeed, had appeared. Where there had been but an empty stage now stood a scene representing a magnificent garden, with statuary, fountains and beautiful shrubbery all in their proper places. True, a great portion of this was represented by the back drop, but Dorothy knew that from the front the scene would look very real. Great jagged edges of wood wings protruded on to the stage—three on either side—while benches and palms were scattered here and there to properly balance the picture. Then, as if to force into the scene an incongruity of some sort, a grand piano was pushed out of the darkness in the rear of the stage, to a place in the garden, where it stood, seemingly the one blot on the landscape.

“A piano in a garden!” exclaimed Dorothy, and laughed softly to herself. “Who ever heard of such a thing? Yet, of course, the concert could not proceed without it.”

“Ah, my dear, here you are! You are fascinated with it all, yes?” questioned Herr Deichenberg, as he passed in a hurry. She nodded, smiling, and saw him rush hurriedly to the dressing-rooms below the stage to make sure all his pupils were present.

As he went the house electrician, with each hand on portions of the big switchboard, threw on the border and bunch lights, making the great stage almost as light as day. Then, out in front, Dorothy heard the orchestra as it struck into the overture, and hastening away, she seated herself in her dressing-room to await her turn on the programme.

Aunt Betty, she knew, sitting with Len and Jim in one of the front rows of the orchestra, would be eagerly awaiting her appearance. She resolved that not only her relative, but Herr Deichenberg, as well, should be proud of her achievements.

She heard the first number—a piano solo—then the great roar of applause that swept over the assemblage. This was followed by an encore. Then another round of applause.

The next number was a harp solo. This was followed by a piano duet, which, in turn, was succeeded by a vocal number. Following each the applause was almost deafening. Encores were allowed in each instance by the music master.

Finally, toward the close of another piano duet, a call boy came to the door of Dorothy’s dressing-room to say:

“Herr Deichenberg says tell you your turn is next, and you will please come at once and wait in the wings.”

Most girls would have felt a flutter of excitement when told that one of the crucial moments of their lives was at hand. Not so Dorothy Calvert. Her hands were steady and her confidence unbounded.

Holding her skirt slightly off the stage, that her new frock might present a spotless appearance, the girl, violin in hand, hurried to the wings.

The encore of the piano duet was just concluding. Herr Deichenberg nodded and smiled at her. Then the players, two young girls, scarcely older than she, arose, and with graceful bows, tripped off the stage within a few feet of her, their faces flushed with pleasure as great rounds of applause again rolled over the big auditorium. Herr Deichenberg sent them out for another bow, after which the noise simmered down, and the music master turned his attention to the next number.

The curtain was not lowered between numbers. There was merely a pause as the orchestra laid aside one set of music and turned to another.

“Be ready now,” he warned, turning to Dorothy. “You enter from vhere you are, valking to de center of de stage, down near de footlights. Smile, Miss Dorothy, und do not put your violin to your shoulder until de orchestra is half way t’rough de introduction.”

The girl inclined her head and smiled that she understood. Then, at a nod from the music master, the electrician flashed a signal to the orchestra. The leader raised his baton, then the instruments swept off into the overture of the piece Dorothy was to play.

“Now,” said the Herr, giving her a gentle push.

The next instant Dorothy, for the first time in her life, found herself sweeping out on a great stage, with a sea of faces in front of her. She blinked once or twice as the footlights flashed in her eyes, then singling out Aunt Betty, Jim and Len—having previously located their seats—she smiled genially.

In the center of the great stage, but a few feet back from the footlights, she paused as Herr Deichenberg had told her. Then, as the orchestra approached the end of the overture, she raised her violin to her chin. With a graceful sweep of the bow she began.

There was a great hush over the auditorium, as the horns, bass viol and second violins left off playing, and the clear notes of Dorothy’s instrument went floating into every corner of the building, accompanied by soft strains from the piano and first violins. The piece was one of the classics, recognized immediately by everyone, and there was an expectant move as the girl reached the more difficult parts.

Her eyes closed, her body swaying slightly, Dorothy played as she never had before. She forgot the audience, Aunt Betty, everything, except that here was a great orchestra playing her accompaniment—surely enough encouragement for any girl to do her best.

There came a pause in the music, and the girl lowered her violin, while the orchestra played on. There was a slight ripple of applause from several in the audience, who, apparently, thought the piece was at an end, but this died away as the girl again raised the instrument to her chin.

The second part was even more difficult than the first, but Dorothy swept into it with no thought but to play it as it should be played. Even the eyes of the orchestra leader lit up with admiration, and when at last the piece was concluded with a great flourish, and Dorothy had bowed herself off into the wings, the applause that swept over the assemblage was louder than at any other time during the evening.

Herr Deichenberg patted Dorothy reassuringly on the back as she stood in the wings, panting slightly from the exertion of her work, and well-pleased that so much of the ordeal was over.

The applause continued without cessation—first, the sharp clapping of hands, which spread over the audience as if by magic, finally the stamping of feet; later shrill whistles from the gallery.

“It means for you an encore,” said the music master, smiling at Dorothy. Then he nodded to the electrician, who again flashed a signal to the orchestra leader, and the musicians struck off into the overture of Dorothy’s second piece.

Bowing rather timidly, but with much grace, the girl again advanced to the center of the stage, and gazed out for a moment over the vast ocean of faces which stared up at her. Then as the orchestra finished the introduction, she again raised her violin to her chin.

The second piece was a sad, plaintive one, and as Dorothy drew her bow full length across the strings, the instrument sent forth loud wails, which, to anyone with a keen musical ear, denoted mortal anguish. This was followed by shorter, quicker parts, which finally resolved themselves into the coming of a storm. On her G string the girl brought forth all the terrors of the elements, running the whole gamut from incessant rumbling to the crashing of the thunder, while the orchestra supplied effective and necessary accompaniments.

It was a beautiful piece of music, well played, and when Dorothy had finished and again bowed herself off the stage, the storm of applause broke forth again. Under Herr Deichenberg’s direction she took three bows in succession, only to find the applause, if anything, more pronounced.

She looked at the music master for her cue. He smilingly said:

“Vell, dey seem to like it. You may play another.”

Again he signaled the orchestra, and once more Dorothy Calvert went tripping out on the stage, gratitude surging in her heart toward that great audience which had been so kind as to express approval of her work.

This time it was a medley of old Southern airs she played. The audience sat spellbound while the strains of “Old Black Joe,” and “Old Folks at Home” were heard throughout the auditorium, and when Dorothy swung into the quick measures of her beloved “Dixie,” such a roar shook the building as Aunt Betty had never heard before.

Again Dorothy bowed herself off into the first entrance. Again and again she was sent forth to bow her acknowledgments—to bow again and again until she was forced to throw up her hands in token of the fact that she had exhausted her repertoire.

The applause extended well into the beginning of the next number, and the young lady who was to perform on the piano after Dorothy, refused to go on the stage until the young violinist had taken another bow.

Then followed the appearance of Herr Deichenberg, whose reception was easily the greatest of the evening. Dorothy did not wait to hear her music master play, but hurried off to her dressing-room with her violin, her heart singing a song of gladness.

“Thus it is,” she thought, “that success takes hold of our sensibilities, and in the same way does failure serve to discourage one, and put enthusiasm at a low ebb.”

In her dressing-room she sat and heard the thunders of applause that followed the Herr’s playing. Then, after a short wait, when the audience was quiet, the Herr appeared suddenly at the door of her dressing-room. With him was a smartly-dressed stranger who bowed and extended his hand in a cordial way as the old German said:

“Miss Calvert, allow me to introduce Mr. Ludlow, de theatrical manager from New York. He happened to be in de theater during your performance, and he hastened back to talk over with you a few matters of importance. I vill leave him with you.”

The Herr disappeared, and after inviting Mr. Ludlow to have a seat, Dorothy reseated herself and turned expectantly toward him.

“I know you are wondering what I have to say to you, Miss Calvert, so I will come at once to the point. Being in the theatrical business, I am naturally on the lookout for talent along various lines. I have been vividly impressed with your playing to-night and I felt that I should not care to let the opportunity go by to inquire into your future plans.”

This was put partly in the form of a question and the girl responded:

“Do you mean, Mr. Ludlow, that you would like to offer me an engagement?”

“That I shall, perhaps, be able to determine when I learn your plans.”

“Well, I have none. My lessons are not over with Herr Deichenberg. I shall be under his instruction until next spring, at least.”

“And after that?”

“Oh, I cannot say. Before talking over arrangements with you, I should like to discuss the matter with my aunt, Mrs. Calvert.”

“That will be agreeable to me, I am sure.”

“But she is out in front. I shall be unable to see her until the concert is over.”

“To-morrow will do, Miss Calvert. I merely wish to-night to make sure you do not sign a contract with another manager without giving me a chance.”

“Oh, I can safely promise that.”

“Then I shall be content. Where can I see you to-morrow?”

“We shall be very glad to have you call at Bellvieu.”

“Bellvieu, Miss Calvert?”

“Yes; our home in the suburbs. I had forgotten you were not a native Baltimorean.”

“At what time will it be convenient for me to call?”

“Either in the morning or afternoon.”

“Shall we say ten o’clock, then?”

“Yes.”

“I trust I shall not inconvenience your aunt by calling so early.”

“Not at all.”

“It is imperative that I catch a train for New York at twelve.”

Mr. Ludlow took his leave, after expressing his pleasure at having met Dorothy.

The girl’s feelings would be hard to describe. That her playing should have awakened the interest of a professional manager was to her rather astonishing.

She was meditating over the offer, and wondering what her prim and staid Aunt Betty would think of it, when Frau Deichenberg entered the dressing-room. The Frau had been on the stage looking after several of the Herr’s protÉgÉs, and was highly elated over the showing they had made.

“My dear, my dear,” she cried. “You have done nobly! Herr Deichenberg is pleased with you beyond measure.”

To which Dorothy responded:

“If I have deserved his praise, I am glad. But it seems that I have done so little.”

“Ah, but did you not hear de audience? Dey liked your moosic, und dey clap their hands und stamp their feet. Dat iss de one true mark of appreciation.”

When the concert was over and Dorothy was traveling homeward in the barouche with Aunt Betty, she told her of the visit of Mr. Ludlow. Aunt Betty listened patiently until she had finished, then said:

“Dear, I had supposed I was raising you up to something better than a stage career.”

“But, auntie, the stage is all right—it must be, there are so many fine people connected with it. And then, it would be the concert stage in my case, and that is different from dramatic work, you know.”

“Yes; but violinists, as well as other performers, sometimes listen to the call of the dollar, and go from the concert to the variety stage. I am not sure such connections would be the best for my little girl.”

“But, Aunt Betty, it is my life’s ambition,” said the girl, a queer little catch in her voice.

“There, there,” Aunt Betty responded, as she put her arm about the shoulder of her great-niece. “Don’t take what I say so much to heart. We will think this matter over, and you may be very sure of one thing, dear—we shall do what is right and for the best.”

And with this for the time being Dorothy was forced to be content.

The matter was put in abeyance for an indefinite time, however, by a message from Mr. Ludlow, the following morning, in which he said he had been called back to New York earlier than he had expected, but that he would not forget the girl, and upon his next visit to Baltimore during the course of the fall or winter, he would arrange to call and settle matters to Dorothy’s entire satisfaction.

“And who knows, by then I may have won Aunt Betty over,” muttered the girl, who, however, decided to drop the subject until the opportune moment arrived to discuss it.