As the orchestra changed to the opening bars of the prelude to her song, Marion became more composed and was able to look about a little. What kind of a place was she in? Her eyes were wide open now as she asked herself the question. Men and women, scores of them, were seated all over the hall, and before them were small tables loaded with bottles and glasses, while men with white aprons moved swiftly between them, carrying trays which contained more glasses and bottles. A whiff of villainous tobacco smoke floated to her nostrils, and just then the opening chord of her song was struck. Marion closed her eyes and commenced her song. There was hardly a sound in the house while the young girl sang, and the silence helped her to concentrate her thoughts on the inspiration of her song, which was her sister Dollie. It was a simple ballad, filled with pathos and love, and Marion’s exquisite voice thrilled even the most callous of her hearers. As the last note died away, there was silence for a moment, then the audience rose to its feet and fairly yelled its “Bravos!” “You must go back, they are encoring you,” cried Mr. Vondergrift, meeting her in the wings. “Oh, I can’t! I can’t!” said Marion, almost crying. “Can you sing ‘Comin’ Thro’ the Rye?’” asked Mr. Vondergrift, with a sudden inspiration. “Why, certainly,” said Marion, a little surprised that he should ask her. “Then go back and sing it!” said the man peremptorily. Marion went back to the footlights and was greeted with a perfect storm of applause. A signal from somewhere told the orchestra to be silent. In another second Marion started the well-known ditty. The cheers that followed fairly shook the building. CHAPTER XV. MARION SEES MR. MOORE. “Carlotta” and “The Olio” were eclipsed entirely, and Otto Vondergrift took occasion to brag a little the next morning. “That hundred wasn’t a bad investment, after all,” he said to his friend Rosen. “Why, there wasn’t a dozen people left in ‘The Olio’ after Ila began singing!” “Here she comes!” said the song writer, as Marion entered. “I’ll leave you to make love to your little rustic prima donna!” “Here are your hundred dollars, miss,” said Vondergrift, promptly, “and I’ll give you the same price if you will sing again this evening, and to-morrow I’ll make a contract to hire you for the season.” Marion put the money in her pocket, and then faced him tremblingly. “I had no idea, sir, that I was to sing in a drinking place,” she said, slowly; “believe me, your money would not have tempted me if I had known it. I am a temperance woman—I don’t believe in drinking liquor.” Otto Vondergrift was so surprised that he could hardly speak for a moment. “What, do you mean that you refuse my offer of one hundred dollars for an evening? Why, girl, are you mad, or are you dreaming?” “I must refuse it, sir!” said Marion, sternly. “I do not approve of your concert hall, and I should feel disgraced were I to again appear in it!”