There she stood, serene and glowing, as one that had never known pain. My very eyes doubted. On her face was no sign of suffering, no trace of a tear. Was she, then, utterly without heart? In my memory I retraced the scene of that afternoon, and all my reason acquitted her. Yet, as she stood there in her glorious epiphany, illumined with the blazing lights, and radiant in the joy and freshness of youth, I could have doubted whether, after all, Clarissa Lambert and Claire Luttrell were one and the same. There was one thing which I did not fail, however, to note as strange. She did not once glance in the direction of my box, but kept her eyes steadily averted. And it then suddenly dawned upon me that she must be playing with a purpose; but what that purpose was I could not guess. Whatever it was, she was acting magnificently and had for the present completely surrendered herself to her art. Grand as that art had been on the first night of "Francesca," the power of that performance was utterly eclipsed to-night. Once between the acts I heard two voices in the passage outside my box-- "What do you think of it?" said the first. "What can I?" answered the other. "And how can I tell you? It is altogether above words." He was right. It was not so much admiration as awe and worship that held the house that night. I have heard a man say since that he wonders how the play could ever have raised anything beyond a laugh. He should have heard the sobs that every now and then would break uncontrollably forth, even whilst Claire was speaking. He should have felt the hush that followed every scene before the audience could recollect itself and pay its thunderous tribute. Still she never looked towards me, though all the while my eyes were following my lost love. Her purpose--and somehow in my heart I grew more and more convinced that some purpose lay beneath this transcendent display--was waiting for its accomplishment, and in the ringing triumph of her voice I felt it coming nearer--nearer--until at last it came. The tragedy was nearly over. Francesca had dismissed her old lover and his new bride from their captivity and was now left alone upon the stage. The last expectant hush had fallen upon the house. Then she stepped slowly forward in the dead silence, and as she spoke the opening lines, for the first time our eyes met. "Here then all ends:--all love, all hate, all vows, All vain reproaches. Aye, 'tis better so. So shall he best forgive and I forget, Who else had chained him to a life-long curse, Who else had sought forgiveness, given in vain While life remained that made forgiveness dear. Far better to release him--loving more Now love denies its love and he is free, Than should it by enjoyment wreck his joy. Blighting his life for whom alone I lived.