“That night, child, when you sang that air from the opera of the ‘Bohemian Girl,’ I thought I should go insane with the memories it aroused,” she explained among other things. “The last time I had heard it my betrothed had sung it to me under peculiarly trying circumstances. A party of young people in Washington had prepared that opera to be rendered at a private musicale. I had the part of Arline, and my betrothed, who was a fine singer and who had come on to Washington for our marriage, which was to occur a week later, had the part of Rupert. The night arrived; the opera was in progress, when, while we two were waiting our turn to go on the stage, we had a bitter quarrel. No matter what it was about; it had been all planned and instigated by others, with the express purpose of breaking off our marriage, although I did not know this until afterward. A little forbearance, a word or two of explanation on my part would have set everything right; but I was too proud to make it, and the last time I ever spoke to my lover was just as we went on the stage, when he was to sing the song you sang to me. ‘I will never forgive you—never!’ I cried, as the call was given; and then I sprang toward the wing where I was to enter. When he came on he was pale but calm, and he sang to me as I had never heard him sing before. The pathos and entreaty which he threw into those thrilling words I have never forgotten; they have haunted me through all these long years: “‘When hollow hearts shall wear a mask ’Twill break your own to see. In such a moment I but ask That you’ll remember me.’”