And now began a period in Winn's life which he never afterward recalled without a chill of dread. To no one did he confide his feelings, for no one, he felt, could understand them. It was not exactly a love-lorn fit of despondency, and yet it was, for Mona was ever present in his thoughts. He avoided Jack Nickerson, hating to listen to his inevitable sneering, and kept away from Ethel Sherman. He hunted for news items, as duty called him, visiting the stock exchange, the theatre, the court rooms, and the morgue. And while he looked for news, recording simple drunks and their penalties, suicides and their names and history, and the advent of theatrical stars with equal indifference, he scanned the crowded streets and all public places, ever on the watch for one fair face. Often he would stand on a corner for an hour, watching the passing throng, and then at a theatre entrance until all had departed. And though he was one of that busy throng of pushing people, a spectator of careless, laughing humanity crowding into and out of playhouses, he was not of them. Instead was he a disappointed, discouraged man, whose ambitions had come to naught and whose hopes were in shadow. He was moody and silent at home and aimless at his work, and as the days went by with never one glimpse of the face he now longed to see more than all else in the world, he grew utterly hopeless. How many times had he lived over those summer days on Rockhaven, how often fancied himself in the cave listening to the artless words and simple music of that child of nature, and how he cursed his own stupidity and lack of appreciation, need not be specified. With him, as with us all, the blessings that had been his seemed to brighten and grow dearer as they took flight. And of Mona or her whereabouts, not one word or hint had reached him. CHAPTER XLVI A NEW STAR To that city, surfeited with pleasure, a new sensation had come, and while Winn Hardy was aimlessly gathering news items, too disconsolate to read the amusement notes even, and caring not at all what happened in stage-land, it was slowly spreading. A little ripple at first, when the few who could appreciate the exquisite nature of Mona's simple music, heard her to go away charmed and come again, the while telling all whom they knew of it, until the "Alhambra" was packed each night and "Mlle. Mona in Scotch Melodies," as the sign that flanked either side of the stage read, was all the rage. Then the papers picked it up and the musical critics exhausted their vocabularies about her. They extolled her pose, expression, and inflection; they went into raptures over technique, time, and timbre; they lauded her classic profile, her arm, her throat, her eyes; while Mona, unmindful of all their clatter, forgot herself each night as she threw her very heart and soul into her playing. And Fritz grew mad with love!