“Speaking of Aunt Ione, reminds me that she has refused to chaperon our theater-party to-night. Going with Mr. Seabright to a grand ball, you know--and grandmama seldom goes out in public. Italy, will you come with us--you and Mrs. Vale?” “We can ask her when we go back. She admires Bernhardt very much.” “So does Professor Doepkin. He has actually promised to make one of our box-party to-night,” said Emmett, and that decided Italy to go. She had heard so much of the big blond German she felt quite curious over him. But when the second act of the play was over and he had not come, she began to think she was going to be disappointed. “He has forgotten his engagement,” said Alexie. “No, he could not find his dress-coat,” laughed Ralph. “It is neither, for I saw him just now down there near the orchestra watching us. I beckoned him, and he dodged. The fact is, he is as bashful as a school-boy, and too timid, I suppose, to join us,” said Emmett. A minute later he said to Italy: “Look, I will point him out to you. You see that big man with the shock of blond curls and whiskers, and the broad shoulders?--Ralph, you’re right, he didn’t find his dress-coat--well, that is he. He’s looking at us now through those glasses.” Italy looked, and saw the German looking at her through his opera-glasses. A strange, unaccountable thrill shook her from head to foot. “Oh, I feel so strangely!”--she half-shuddered and tried to laugh. “Oh, Mr. Harlow, your German hasn’t got the evil eye, I hope.” “No, indeed; the prettiest blue-gray eyes in the world, only so near-sighted. Perhaps he will get ashamed of his shyness and come to us presently.” From that moment Italy could see no one in the vast, fashionable throng except the broad shoulders and leonine hair and beard of the near-sighted German. She kept watching him, and always with a strange and subtile thrill of blended pain and pleasure. Even when the curtain rose, and the peerless Bernhardt came on the stage again, her glance would wander to him. “You seem to admire my German,” whispered Emmett, and Italy blushed vividly. “I--oh, no--that is----” she began incoherently, then paused and said, with lovely frankness: “I _am_ interested in him, and I have just found out why. There is something about him that makes me think of--Francis Murray!” The last word came with a sort of gasp. “His broad shoulders, yes, and he is blond, too, like Mr. Murray,” returned Emmett. “And, do you know, I think if Doepkin would make the most of himself, he would make as rarely a handsome man as Francis Murray was. I say _was_; for, poor fellow, I begin to fear there can’t be any mistake in the report of his death.” “Oh, don’t!” she half-sobbed. “I--I can’t bear to believe him dead, for I was with him, you know, and I feel--I feel as though I had killed him.” He caught a repressed note of anguish in the clear young voice, and looked at her keenly.