“Miss Earl, is this your first night at the opera?”

“No, sir; I was here once before with Mr. Andrews and his children.”

“I judge from your writings that you are particularly fond of music.”

“Yes, sir; I think few persons love it better than I do.”

“What style do you prefer?”

“Sacred music—­oratorios rather than operas.”

The orchestra began an overture of Verdi’s, and Edna’s eyes went back to her flowers.

Presently Mrs. Andrews said eagerly: 

“Look, Miss Earl!  Yonder, in the box directly opposite, is the celebrated Sir Roger Percival, the English nobleman about whom all Gotham is running mad.  If he has not more sense than most men of his age, his head will be completely turned by the flattery heaped upon him.  What a commentary on Republican Americans, that we are so dazzled by the glitter of a title!  However, he really is very agreeable; I have met him several times, dined with him last week at the Coltons.  He has been watching us for some minutes.  Ah! there is a bow for me; and one I presume for you, Mr. Manning.”

“Yes, I knew him abroad.  We spent a month together at Dresden, and his brain is strong enough to bear all the adulation New Yorkers offer his title.”

Edna looked into the opposite box, and saw a tall, elegantly-dressed man, with huge whiskers and a glittering opera-glass; and then as the curtain rose on the first act of “Ernani,” she turned to the stage, and gave her entire attention to the music.

At the close of the second act Mrs. Andrews said: 

“Pray who is that handsome man down yonder in the parquet, fanning himself with a libretto!  I do not think his eyes have moved from this box for the last ten minutes.  He is a stranger to me.”

She turned her fan in the direction of the person indicated, and Mr. Manning looked down and answered: 

“He is unknown to me.”

Edna’s eyes involuntarily wandered over the sea of heads, and the editor saw her start and lean forward, and noticed the sudden joy that flashed into her face, as she met the earnest, upward gaze of Gordon Leigh.

“An acquaintance of yours, Miss Earl?”

“Yes, sir, an old friend from the South.”

The door of the box opened, and Sir Roger Percival came in and seated himself near Mrs. Andrews, who in her cordial welcome seemed utterly to forget the presence of the governess.

Mr. Manning sat close to Edna, and taking a couple of letters from his pocket he laid them on her lap, saying: 

“These letters were directed to my care by persons who are ignorant of your name and address.  If you will not consider me unpardonably curious, I should like to know the nature of their contents.”

She broke the seals and read the most flattering commendations of her magazine sketches, the most cordial thanks for the pleasure derived from their perusal; but the signatures were unknown to her.