"They did not know——" she said, then paused, abruptly.
"That Madam Dolores was little Lina?" he said; "no, but in the first moment when you came upon the stage we were struck by the resemblance. Violet was positively agitated, yet she refused to entertain the idea that it could really be you. You see she had always felt convinced that you were dead, or that"—he paused, and she could see the shudder that shook the strong, handsome form—"you had met a more terrible fate."
"And you—did you believe in my identity?" she asked, calmly, and a little curiously.
"Yes," he answered, unfalteringly. "I knew there was no other face or voice on earth like yours."
"You must have been surprised?" she said.
"I was," he answered. "Only think how strange it is, Lina. We who parted under such sad and terrible circumstances three years ago, to meet again in this way. To think that you of all others should be the one to bring out the opera on which I have labored so long."
"I did not know that you were the author—you must believe that, Mr. Valchester! I should not have undertaken it had I only known!" she exclaimed, hurriedly and earnestly.
He looked at her, the heavy sadness on his face deepening as he saw the lines of pain drawn around the delicate, scarlet lips.
"Lina, were you so proud?" he asked.
"I did not know it was pride," she said, simply. "I was only thinking that—that it were so much better if we had never met again."