The dinner passes agreeably, and the carriage comes for them. The professor has been discoursing upon Wagner and his musical theories, but he will not have anything said about this particular opera. So Violet takes her seat, with her husband on one side and the professor on the other, and prepares herself to listen to that hidden mental element that touches the inmost processes of the soul. _Elsa_, in her blissful surprise, the mysterious enchantment convincing her of reality, loving, adoring, trusting to the uttermost, and content to live, to take love without asking herself from whence her lover comes; to hold her happiness on so strong a tenure now because she _does_ trust. Wide-eyed, exultant, Violet listens. Cannot her husband read _her_ story in her eyes? The beautiful march enchants her. Again she says to herself, Is this love? Though the way is straight and few find it, some blest souls enter in. And then the question forces itself upon Elsa's soul, it becomes its deepest need, and in that evil hour she sets it above love. There is the thrilling vision and _Lohengrin's_ rebuke, and Violet listens and looks like one entranced. _Elsa_ asks her fateful question, and the enchantment is gone. Ah, can any tears, any prayers bring him back? Can all the divine passion and repentance of one's life prevail? The lovely color goes out of Violet's face; it seems for a moment as if she would faint. How can all these women keep from crying out in their anguish? "_Mignonne_," the professor says, softly, and takes her hand, "come out of thy too passionate dream. That is the musician's soul, but it is not daily food." Her eyes are blind with tears, and she is glad to rise with the crowd and go. Gertrude Grandon's brief engagement is shortened by nearly a fortnight on account of a literary meeting at Chicago that the professor must attend. So Christmas day at two o'clock they go to church, Gertrude in dark blue cloth, that is extremely becoming, and fits her tall, slender figure to perfection; just under the brim of her bonnet are two pale-pink crush roses, the only tint of color. No one could imagine so much improvement possible. Floyd gives her away also. He has endeared her by many kindnesses, but the last is placing her present and possible fortune in her hands. "But if you should never be able to get it all out of the business?" she asks, and her eyes moisten. "Then," he answers, "the rest is my wedding gift to you. I should like to make it much larger." "O Floyd, what a good brother you have been! And we have never thought of anything but just our own selves," she adds, remorsefully. "Yes," he rejoins, "_you_ have thought of Violet."