But for Christine the law of association had become too strong, and the prolonged applause recalled the evening at Miss Brown's when the same sounds had deafened her, but when turning from it all she had seen Dennis Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, his eyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even then it was worth more to her than all the clamor. Then, by the same law of association, she again saw that eager, earnest face, changed pale, dead--dead!--and she the cause. Regardless of the compliments lavished upon her, she buried her face in her hands and trembled from head to foot. But the irrepressible tenor had found what he wanted, and now came forward asking that Miss Ludolph would sing a duet with him. She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing similarity and still more torturing contrast of the two occasions be continued? But she saw her father regarding her sternly--saw that she was becoming the subject of curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride was aroused at once, and, goaded on by it, she said, "Oh, certainly; I am not feeling well, but it does not signify." "And den," put in the tenor, "dis is von grand occazeon to _you_, for it is so unfrequent dat I find any von vorthy to sing dis style of music vith _me_." "What is the music?" asked Christine, coldly. To her horror she found it the same selection from Mendelssohn that she had sung with Dennis. "No," she said, sharply, "I cannot sing that." "Pardon me, my daughter, you can sing it admirably if you choose," interposed her father. She turned to him imploringly, but his face was inflexible, and his eyes had an incensed look. For a moment she, too, was angry. Had he no mercy? She was about to decline coldly, but her friends were very urgent and clamorous--"Please do," "Don't disappoint us," echoing on every side. The tenor was so surprised and puzzled at her insensibility to the honor he had conferred, that, to prevent a scene she could not explain, she went to the piano as if led to the stake. But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering state. The familiar notes recalled so vividly the one who once before had sung them at her side that she turned almost expecting to see him--but saw only the vain little animated music-machine, who with many contortions was producing the harmony. "Just this mockery my life will ever be," she thought; "all that I am, the best I can do, will always be connected with something insignificant and commonplace. The rich, impassioned voice of the _man_ who sang these words, and who might have taught me to sing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced forever." The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred, but her voice died away in a miserable quaver, and again she buried her face in her hands. Suddenly she sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cut open window near, and a moment later ordered her startled maid from the room, turned the key, and was alone.