“Yes, success is satisfactory, and it is a means to an end in this case.  Marie, my dear one, through all those long years of drudgery I heard of you only through M. Bois-le-Duc at rare intervals.  But, through all that weary time, I never ceased to think of you, though as one far, far removed from me.  Then you rose to fame and wealth; to me, a poor struggling artist, further off than ever, and for a time I despaired.  You were feted by the highest in the land, all London was at your feet—­what had I to do with the brilliant prima donna?  What claim had I to remind her of the old days at Father Point, of my life-long devotion?  Oh!  Marie, my darling, to keep silence, to think that I might lose you after all, was almost unendurable.  Now, though, I can speak.  I, too, have achieved success as the world counts it.  We may now, on that score, meet as equals.  Were it not so, I should keep silence always.  Marie, I have loved you ever since I knew you.  I have watched with interest your whole career, your failures, your successes.  I dare not hope my affection is returned—­that is too much—­and I must ask pardon for having spoken to you to-day.”

The self-possessed prima donna had been very still while Lacroix spoke, and sat shading her face with one hand, and, strange to say, endeavoring to hide the tears which would come in spite of her efforts.

“Marie, speak, my dear one.  Have I distressed you?  Oh!  Marie, I should not have spoken, only the thought of putting the Atlantic between us without telling you was too hard, Marie.”

“Eugene, why should you put the Atlantic between us?” said Marie, and something in the expression of her face gave him courage to ask—­

“Marie, I am going to Father Point next month.  Will you come with me?”

“Yes, Eugene, with you anywhere,” placing her hands in his, a look of perfect rest and peace coming over her sweet, care-worn face.

“Remember, Marie,” he said gravely, “it is no small thing I ask—­to give up your place at the opera, to sacrifice the applause of the world and the pleasing excitement of your life.”

“I am tired of it all, Eugene, it is such an empty life.”

“And I may be in Canada a whole year—­think of it, a year away from London.  You must consider all this, and, my dear one, I am not a rich man.”

“But I am rich,” she said laughing, “very rich, and I never was so glad of it before.  Now, have you any more objections to make, for I am beginning to think you don’t want me to go to Father Point with you after all.”

That night at the opera Mademoiselle Laurentia, the critics said, surpassed herself, though, strange occurrence for usually one so punctual, she kept the audience waiting for a quarter of an hour.  Never before had she sung so well.