By her side sat Annette. It was the report that she had been sent south last winter to break up a desperate flirtation she was carrying on. However it was, I had always fancied Annette more than either of the other sisters. She had apparently less of our northern reserve, whether for good or evil, than the rest. She said just what she was thinking; danced when she liked; was insolent when she pleased. To-night she seemed to me fretful. She was angry with Lilly for talking with Lieutenant Preston; and, indeed, I must not, in honor, reveal all I read in Annette's mind. If I found there her opinion of me; if, on the whole, it lowered my opinion of myself, I must take refuge in the old proverb, "Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves." But there was Angelina; she was the one who "painted in oils," and she attracted me more than any of the others. There was about her an atmosphere of pleasure, within her an expression of delight, that accounted for the really sunny gleam upon her face. Something had made all the day happy for her. In the morning she had passed nearly all the time in Mrs. Jay's front drawing-room. The fine masterpieces of art, brought from Europe, make this apartment a true picture-gallery. But Angelina's pleasure, artist though she was, was not taken from the figures upon the walls. She walked up and down the room; she lingered awhile in one of the deep fauteuils; she paused before the paintings with Frank Leslie by her side. As she turned, at the theatre, now and then to the vacant seat behind her, next Aurelia's, her anticipation was not embittered by anxiety; she knew he would come in time. Oh, Frank! you did not tell me _all_ that took place at Mrs. Jay's! But, from all these observations, my thoughts were turned back to the stage by the influence of the little Sophie Seymour. She--about whom we knew nothing--she was the only one of the party entirely absorbed in the opera. Her eyes fixed upon the stage; her heart wrapt up in the intense story that was being enacted; her musical soul throbbing with the glorious chords that swelled out; her whole being reflected the opera. So I turned me to the stage. My eyes fell first upon the substitute that the illness of Mademoiselle ---- required for the night. Just now she was standing on one side, and as she drew her white glove closer, _her_ thoughts were going back to the scenes of the day. Oh! what a little room she lived in! She was sitting in it when the message came from the manager to summon her to sing to-night! Her brother Franz was copying some music by her side; and now she is smiling at the recollection of the conversation that had followed upon her accepting the manager's unexpected proposal. She had hastened to get out her last concert dress. It was new once--but oh! would it answer now for the opera? Those very white kid gloves! They had cost her her dinner.