It was several minutes before she could open the book. She, who had always loved music and poetry so dearly, sat trembling with her lover's poems in her hands and could not read them. She was dizzy--there was a mist before her eyes. The luxurious room seemed to fade before her, giving place to the green hills and dales of her old Virginia home. She felt the cold winds whispering among the trees and lifting the careless curls from her brow, she smelt the "violets hidden in the green," she recalled the old, simple, lonely life which had been glorified for a little while by Ronald Valchester's love. Then with a start she came back to the present. Of that life and of that lover there remained to her only a memory now. "And this," she said, opening the beautiful book and trembling all over as she read the dainty verses into which her lost lover had poured all the poetry and passion of a gifted mind and tender heart. She read on and on. They touched her strangely, these gems of thought and feeling. Some were very sad and tender--some seemed to have poured straight from Ronald's heart into her own. It seemed as if he had written them for her--for her only. She became quite lost in them, and oblivious to everything else; she did not hear the professor steal out and close the door gently behind him. The outer world had no place in her thoughts for awhile. She started when a hand was laid upon her head, and looked up with a cry, but it was only the old professor's wife, who was like a mother to her. "Oh, forgive me, darling," said the sweet old lady; "I did not mean to startle you. But only look at these flowers!" She put a bouquet into the _prima donna's_ hand--an exquisite collection of rare and odorous flowers. There was not a scentless leaf or flower in the bouquet. The delicate, living fragrance floated deliciously through the room. "_He_ sent them--the author of the opera himself," cried Mrs. Professor, delightedly. "He is coming with the manager to call on you this afternoon." "Very well," said Madam Dolores, resignedly. "_Chere maman_, please tell my maid to put the flowers in water, and call me when it's time to dress." "Why, my dear, it's time now, this minute. You have been lost in that book for hours! Twice I looked into the room, and went out again because you were so absorbed I hadn't the heart to disturb you. But now, really, there isn't another minute to lose. I've told Fanchette to lay out a handsome dress for you--and, dear, I think it would be a graceful compliment to the author to wear a few of these flowers in your hair." "Very well," said Madam Dolores again, as she rose and passed into the dressing-room, still clasping the precious book in her hand. "What will madame wear?" inquired the trim French maid. "Anything; it does not matter," was the careless reply, as Madam Dolores threw herself into a chair to have her hair rearranged, and opened her book again. She could not bear to lose a minute from its pages.