But, whereas at the Old Folks’ Concert, Esther Townsend had scored the unquestioned hit of the evening; on this occasion her triumph was shared by another. If, as _Josephine_, she was applauded and encored and acclaimed, so also was Seymour Covell as _Ralph Rackstraw_. If some of the mothers and fathers in that hall could have read the minds of their daughters while that handsome sailor was on the stage, they might have been surprised and disturbed. Covell was entirely at ease. There was no awkwardness or stage fright in his acting or singing. His voice rang strong and true, he played his part with grace and dash, and when in the final chorus, arrayed in the glittering uniform of a captain in the Royal Navy, he clasped _Josephine_ in his arms and tunefully declared that the “clouded sky was now serene,” even the demurely proper Miss Makepeace was conscious of a peculiar thrill beneath the bosom of her black silk. The fascinating young gentleman from Chicago was before, as well as behind, the footlights the hero of the performance. Esther, in spite of the applause and encores, the floral tributes and the praise of her associates behind the scenes, was conscious that she was not doing her best. Even in the midst of her most important scenes she found her thoughts wandering miserably. Memories of the happy evening of the concert kept intruding upon her mind. When the bouquets were handed her by Mr. Gott she accepted them smilingly, but with no inward enthusiasm. Her uncle’s floral tribute was even more beautiful and expressive than on the former occasion and from her Aunt Reliance came a bunch of old-fashioned posies which were lovely and fragrant. A magnificent cluster of carnations bore the card of Seymour Covell. She scarcely looked at them; she and Mr. Covell had had an unpleasant scene in the parlor that afternoon. He might not have meant to be presuming--he had protested innocence of any such intention and had contritely begged her pardon--but she was not in a forgiving mood. It had been a horrid day and the evening was just as detestable. She cared little for the approval of her friends and nothing whatever for the flowers they gave her. There were no tea roses among them. Bob Griffin was not in the audience. She had looked everywhere for him but he was not there. There was no reason why he should be, of course. Considering the way he had treated her he would have been brazen indeed to come.