Guiltily, Doris snatched up a roll of music she had dropped on the table and dashed into the bedroom for her hat. With a hasty kiss dropped on the top of her uncle’s head, she dashed for the door and clattered down the stairs two at a time. Reaching the street, she ran all the way to the corner and there swung upon the rear end of a street car just as it was starting. Breathlessly, she dropped into the nearest seat and looked at her wrist watch. “Ten minutes to four,” she told herself. “If this old car isn’t too poky, I’ll make it on time yet.” Doris seldom was late for her vocal lessons, for her interest in music was genuine, and she realized that it was a privilege to be a student of the famed Herr Von Heflinger who accepted only the most promising pupils. On more than one occasion, Doris had become a trifle discouraged, for Von Heflinger was strict and offered criticism more freely than praise. On this afternoon she reached the studio just as the clock was striking four and so avoided the displeasure of the master. Always blunt, he offered only a few words of greeting and seated himself at the piano, quickly arranging the music. Striking a few chords, he selected a difficult piece and bade Doris sing. Somewhat disturbed by Von Heflinger’s austere manner, she began a trifle shakily, but before she had sung a dozen notes, she found herself. Soon she had forgotten her accompanist, had forgotten everything save the song. She sang brilliantly and with more feeling than ever before. Von Heflinger caught the spirit and his hands moved quickly over the keyboard, now running arpeggios, now crashing in loud chords or falling so softly that the tones were scarcely audible. The last note of the song died away, and the master turned to Doris with an expression she had never seen on his face before. “Ah, Miss Force,” he said, “you have the divine spark! You will go far! This summer you must study hard your French and German—and perhaps, who knows, you shall yet be presented in Grand Opera!” Doris scarcely could believe her own ears, for she knew her teacher was not given to idle praise. Grand Opera! How she longed to become famous! She could almost see herself on the stage, taking her curtain calls, making her bows, accepting the flowers. She was brought back to reality by hearing her teacher repeat, more sternly: “This summer you must work—study hard your languages.” The lesson went on, and at five o’clock Doris left the studio, still somewhat dazed at the thought of what might be ahead of her. “I will work,” she told herself as she walked slowly toward the street car. “I’ll work night and day!”