As the music broke into a new strain the girl leaned suddenly forward in her chair and her face showed a new interest. Then her eyes dropped and she seemed to be in a deep study. It was “The Message of the Violet” now, and as the lovers on the stage began the song the audience was hushed into silence. Over the footlights came the strains, mellow, vibrant, charging the very air with the smell of violets and of spring. The girl saw instead of the picture on the stage a vision of a summer night, a quiet corner on the old veranda. The music floated toward them while the dancers swept over the floor and he was repeating to her the story of his love. She had listened half in joy, half in fright, and tears had mingled with smiles before a bevy of laughing girls had called them back to the dance.
The song ended and a great burst of applause awoke the girl from her reverie. Her eyes turned instinctively toward the audience and far back in the shadow she saw him, his eyes half covered with his hand. Over her swept a new feeling, a sudden resolve. She fingered the violets on her lap as the song rose once more into the chorus:
“I love you, love you, love you,
And my heart’s true blue.”
The young man felt a tap on his shoulder. A boyish usher was dropping a tiny bunch of violets into his hand.
“From the young lady in the third box,” he said.
WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE.
BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.
In the quarry of its earthly life,
Works the soul.