not a sign of weariness or inattention was made by any one of the
assembled company. Then gradually the colors of the little
fireworks faded, the stars and wheels revolved more slowly, the
lights in the body of the theatre were gradually raised, and the
stage curtain went softly down.

Anxiously, and a little pale, Herbert Loring peered through
the loophole in the curtain. It was not easy to judge of the
effects of his exhibition, and he did not know whether or not it
had been a success. There was no applause, but, on the other
hand, there was no signs that any one resented the exhibition as
a childish display of colored lights. It was impossible to look
upon that audience without believing that they had been
thoroughly interested in what they had seen, and that they
expected to see more.

For two or three minutes Loring gazed through his loophole,
and then, still with some doubt in his heart, but with a little
more color in his checks, he prepared for the second part of his
performance.

At this moment there entered the theatre, at the very back of
the house, a young lady. She was handsome and well dressed, and
as she opened the door--Loring had employed no ushers or other
assistants in this little social performance--she paused for a
moment and looked into the theatre, and then noiselessly
stepped to a chair in the back row and sat down.

This was Edith Starr, who, a month before, had been betrothed
to Herbert Loring. Edith and her mother had been invited to this