The Alhambra was filled that evening with its usual gathering in search of pleasure. A few hundred blase men and women who had seen everything on the boards of the regular theatres now drifted into this, hoping for a new sensation. Twice as many more store girls whose escorts had brought them there because admission was cheap, and a medley of all sorts, old and young. The saucy balladist in short skirts had sung her song, the soloist in black had picked off his banjo act, the acrobats had leaped and twisted and turned, the magician pulled a stock of worsted balls, a hoopskirt, and a rabbit out of a silk hat borrowed from the audience, and then, after frying an egg in it, returned it unharmed; and the usual vaudeville program was nearing its end when those listless people saw Mona step out from the wings and, without once lifting her eyes to them, bow slightly, and raising her violin, begin playing. And even as Winn's heart had been touched by the wonderful sweetness of her simple music that day in the cave, so were theirs reached now. It was not classic, or new, or unheard before--just a medley of old-time Scotch airs that carried the mirth of a merry dance and the mood of tender love. But the mirth and the mood were there, thrilling, quivering, whispering, even as a human voice would speak. And when the yearning of that medley ended its final appeal, and Mona for the first time raised her eyes to them as she bowed, a storm of applause that fairly shook the building greeted her. Again and again was it repeated, until, bending her queenlike head, she once more raised her violin. And now came "Annie Laurie." Slowly caressing her violin with her face, even as a mother would her babe, Mona played. And every whispered heartache, every pulse of undying love that that old, old song contains, came forth to reach and thrill the hearts of that audience as naught else could. When it was ended and Mona bowed low, what a storm came! Men rose and cheered and women, too, while they brushed the tears away. Again and again did that wave of stamping and voiced applause arise, till the very roof quivered, and still once again. And Mona, the poor child, whose will, stronger than love, had carried her through that awful ordeal without a break, now out of sight, lay sobbing in the arms of Jess. She had won her fame without a flaw, and then, womanlike, had collapsed. CHAPTER XLIII THE CYNIC'S SHADOW