“Play something from Wagner.”
“I’ll play The Swan Song from ‘Lohengrin,’” his wife answered, and after turning over some music, she began a melody Gretel knew, and which set the child’s heart to beating fast, while the hot color rushed up into her cheeks. How well she remembered it all; the crowded opera house; the beautiful scene; the great orchestra, and the clear tenor voice of Lohengrin, singing the farewell to his beloved swan. Then the coming out into the cold, windy street and the shame and remorse that followed.
Suddenly the music stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Douane asked, in surprise; “have you forgotten it?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten it,” his wife answered, with something between a sob and a laugh, “but I can’t play it to-night; my heart is too full. I haven’t played Lohengrin since—why I don’t believe I ever told you about my tragic experience last winter.”
“You have told me of experiences which seemed to me sufficiently tragic, but what is this particular one?”
“I suppose I was foolish to take it as seriously as I did,” said Mrs. Douane. “It really wasn’t as tragic as many other things, but it came at a time when I had just about reached the end of my tether, and you know it is always the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. It was in March, and I was about as blue and discouraged as any one well could be. I had been hungering for a little music for once, but never felt I could spare the money for a ticket to a concert. Then one day I happened to see in the paper that they were giving ‘Lohengrin’ at the Saturday matinée that week, and the temptation proved too great to be resisted. I struggled with my economical scruples for two days, and then on Friday afternoon, I let scruples go to the winds, went to the opera house, and bought a ticket for the balcony. It cost me three dollars, and I knew I hadn’t a dollar to waste on frivolities, but it was my one dissipation of the winter.
“I hurried home with my treasure, feeling like a naughty child, who has stolen a piece of cake, and then what do you suppose I discovered?”
“What?” inquired Mr. Douane, as his wife paused dramatically, and Gretel, on the stairs, held her breath, and leaned forward to catch every word.
“I had lost my ticket,” said Mrs. Douane, solemnly.