Victoria was on the point of showing the two notes to Victor and the father and asking their advice as to her right course of action. But obeying an instant impulse, she suddenly thrust the mote out of sight under her cloak and going down past Victor and the father just as they reached the foot of the steps she told them hurriedly that she was going for a short walk.

"Let me go with you," said Victor, stopping her.

"No! no! I prefer to go alone!" replied Victoria a little sharply. She walked off rapidly, leaving Victor and her father standing by the steps looking after her.

She was excited out of her usual quiet demeanor. Her ambition to secure a good position at good pay, especially in a first class concert company, and her friendship for Aura, coupled with her promise made only that morning, were the opposite desires that clashed in her heart and mind as she walked hurriedly along. What should she do? If she went to Aura she would miss seeing the manager. That would mean the probable loss of the best offer likely to come to her. The season was late for new people to get positions. Then on the other hand if she went to the manager's office first what would Aura's aunt say, or what would she herself think, remembering her sacred promise to come at any time? All this whirled through her mind as she walked the distance of a block. Aura lay partly unconscious and suffering in the next block. The manager's office was four blocks in the other direction.

As Victoria reached the corner where she must decide one way or the other, she suddenly became conscious of the fact that she did not have her violin with her. If she was going to Aura to play for her, she must run back home and get her instrument. She turned about at the corner, and as she did so her eyes caught sight of a new play bill-board near by. It was an announcement of a great leader. Several of the players' and singers' names were printed in large letters. Victoria read them and then almost as if walking in her sleep she stepped down off the walk and crossed the street, going in the direction of the manager's office. She tried to answer the rebuke of her heart by saying, "I must secure this position. The business will not take long, I know. Then I will fly back and be in time to play for Aura. Besides, her aunt is apt to get nervous without reason. I am sure I shall be in time to do all that Aura wants. And if she knew of the opportunity, she would be the first one to say, ‘By all means secure the place before you come to me'"

So Victoria quieted her conscience as she drew near the office of the manager. She was far from happy, however. And as she entered the room she could not crowd down a feeling that she had been false to the duties of friendship.

The manager was evidently waiting for her. He rose as she entered, and bowed with much civility.

"Miss Stanwood?" he inquired and in response to her "Yes, sir," he asked her to be seated and at once proceeded to question her as to her musical education, the extent of her studies, and the possibility, in case they arrived at satisfactory terms, of her going upon the road at once with the company. Victoria's answers were apparently satisfactory. She replied briefly and exactly. Her mind was full of Aura. She felt as if she must hurry to her. The manager then made her a proposition.

"We have not arranged the terms, Miss Stanwood," he said with a smile. "But suppose I should say seventy-five dollars a week for the season."

Victoria caught her breath. Seventy-five dollars a week! Why it was a fortune to begin with.

The manager went on blandly. "You of course to provide for your own traveling expenses out of that amount. Our circuit this winter does not include very many long distance stands."

Victoria bowed and said something about being satisfied with the terms.

"By the way," continued the manager, "I have not heard you play. I am taking you on the recommendation of some friends of mine who were present at the concert last night. Would you mind favoring me here with something?"

"I did not bring my violin," replied Victoria.

"I think we can provide for that oversight," said the manager.

He went over to a corner of the room and opened a small secretary with a glass door and took out a violin and bow which had evidently been very carefully put away. He brought them to Victoria and as he handed them to her, he said,

"There, Miss Stanwood, is one of the few genuine Cremonas in this country. That was a gift to me direct from Camilla Urso on her last appearance in the United States. There are a hundred triumphs lingering in the musical memories of that old instrument."

Victoria seized the precious instrument with quivering delight. For the time being she forgot Aura and everything else except the keen pleasure of handling such an instrument. She had once had in her hands at one of the parlor musicals a Stradivarius loaned her by an old musician but she had never seen a Cremona and the thought of playing on one brought the fire to her cheek and her eye. At first she had shrank at the idea of playing alone to one person and that person the critical director and manager. But the minute her fingers closed over the neck of the famous violin she was all musician. What a difference did it make to her who was present, whether one man or a city full? She quickly tuned the instrument and after a few preliminary chords, as one would stroke a pet horse before mounting to take a morning ride over the prairie, she swung into Paganini's "Witch Dance," at one time considered to be so impossible to perform technically that very few had mastered it successfully. Victoria had learned it and she played it with a fire and almost fury that gave the manager, as he sat back in his easy chair looking and listening sharply, great inward satisfaction. When she had finished he applauded her.

"Bravo!" he cried. Then rose and with old time politeness, bowed profoundly. Victoria flushed with pleasure. It was another triumph for her. Just then a clock in the room chimed with a deep echo the half hour. Half past three and - Aura! She must be getting away.

The manager after the first burst of enthusiasm, sat down and with business directness wrote out the contract binding Victoria at the price he had offered, to become a member of the Company which began its winter's course a week from date. Victoria was given all necessary details as to rehearsals and dates and places of performance, and then the manager with the courtesy for which he was famous at that time wrote out a check for the first week's salary. His quick eye had detected the signs of genteel economy in Victoria. His long experience told him the rest.

All this took time and when Victoria rose to go it was almost four o'clock. She started to go our, still holding the violin which she had not relinquished after playing. She came back into the middle of the room with a confused apology and laid the instrument down on the table. The manager hesitated curiously, - then he said-

"Miss Stanwood, how would you lie to play that violin this winter?"

The color rushed to Victoria's brow. She was all musician again. There was no Aura in her thoughts any more.

"I do not need to say that I would look upon such a possibility as a wonderful privilege."

"Well, I never let it go out of my hands before. But you deserve the best instrument to be found. I'll tell you what I'll do. You may take the violin for the season. I'll risk it with you. Yes, you may take it along now. Here is he case." He took it out of the same secretary, and Victoria, placing the precious instrument in its cover, walked out of the office, almost as proud as if she had been given the violin to keep for her own.

The minute the door closed behind her, some dropping curtains at the farther end of the room parted and eight or ten persons came into the office.

"What did you think of it?" asked the manager briefly.

The answers were varied. Yet all agreed that the manager had secured a prize. Three or four of the group, all of whom had been present in the adjoining room by request of the manager, to hear Victoria, were member of the company. The rest were old musicians, friends of the manager who had not heard Victoria the night before. The effect of Victoria's playing was noticeably marked. The manager had secured an audience all unknown to her and he congratulated himself over the little device. It was with much satisfaction that he dwelt upon the coming concert season.

Victoria almost ran our of the office entry and once on the sidewalk she walked as fast as she could without running. The excitement of her interview with the manager had given way now to a growing feeling of remorse. It was nearly an hour and a half since she had received the note from Aura's aunt. What should she tell them was the reason she had not come at once? Well, she would tell the truth, she said to herself. She would save a little time by not having to go around home to get her instrument. She had the Cremona. She would play that.

As she ran up the steps of the house she noticed the doctor's buggy in front. The door was opened for her by Mrs. Sutton who had seen her coming.

At the sight of the aunt's face, Victoria trembled and fell back against the door.

"How is Aura? - Is she"- the word "dead" trembled on her lip. Mrs. Sutton shook her head. "No, but the attack was worse than we supposed. We do not know what to expect. Didn't you get my note? I was just on the point of sending again. Aura has spoken your name every few minutes."

Victoria covered her face with her hand. What could she say? It was no time to make excuses. Mrs. Sutton touched her on the shoulder. "Come in and see her," she said. And Victoria rose and went into Aura's room.

The doctor was there with the nurse. As Victoria came in and softly walked up to the bed, Aura opened her eyes and saw her. A smile passed over her wan face. "O, you have come! I knew you would keep your promise to come any time. It did not take you long You must have run. How good you are!"

All this spoken in whispers showed that the mind of the invalid had not been conscious of the lapse of time between the writing of the note and Victoria's appearance. It all went to Victoria's heart with a stab. She choked and for answer laid her hand on Aura's.

"You brought your violin. You will play to me now?"

Victoria looked at the doctor. "It won't do any harm," he said. "May result in real good. And hour ago would have been better."

So, Victoria, heavy-hearted, feeling like one who had betrayed the tenderest soul and been false to the highest call of duty, took out the Cremona and played. She hardly knew what. She tried to play one of the old tunes. She thought it must sound very dull and discordant. Aura lay very quiet. Victoria played on. When she finally stopped, the pale lips parted and whispered, "So good of you to come as you promised."

They were the last conscious words spoken by the poor sufferer. She grew weaker as might came on, rallied once or twice as darkness settled over the city, opened her eyes once more and smiled near midnight and between tow and three in the morning she passed out of the life that now is, into the life which is to come.

And Victoria sat through all the agony of the night, her sensitive soul hurt and torn by the passion of her remorse. She had sent word over to the father and Victor and then remained by Aura until the last breath. Perhaps the greatest pang sh had, lay in the thought that she had not been able to confess to Aura the exact truth. Her burden was so heavy on her that she sobbed out her story to Mrs. Sutton while the two were alone for a little while in the other room. The aunt tried to comfort her.

"I am sure, yes, I know Aura would have felt sorry if you had not gone. She was so eager for you to succeed. She would not have exacted the promise from you. You are too sensitive. You wrong yourself."

"No, no!" cried Victoria. "I am sure I do not. But I can never forgive myself for the selfishness of my act. And it is too late now for Aura to know." That was the heart of her grief. That if she had gone at once to her friend without the loss of that precious hour, she might have carried with her all her life a peaceful conscience at the thought of duty exactly performed, of promises literally fulfilled.

She crept home in the early gray of the morning and after a little she fell asleep and did not awake until noon. But she felt the mark of that night's experience on her as long as she lived. After the simple funeral service two days later she had come home and gone up into her room and there kneeling down she prayed- it was not her custom- and that in itself was a new experience. She prayed that she might live to be a noble woman to do unselfish deeds and leave a memory of kindly acts. The prayer brought her real peace. And then as she thoughtfully took up her instrument, she made a promise to the memory of her dear friend that she would use her skill and power with the violin to bless the world and not for selfish ends. Ah, Victoria, you are a woman now! Do you know what that promise means? The world is very large and there is great sorrow and need, and fame is a very pleasant thing. God help you to be true to your memory and the pledge you have made to it.

When Sunday came she went to John King's church to hear Victor sing. It was the last Sunday she would have with him for many days as she would go out of the city that week with the Company. Victor was excited but confident.

"I have rehearsed with the organist three times," he said to Victoria as they went in together. "It's a magnificent organ and the room is beautifully constructed for singing."

Victoria felt a little impatient with Victor's egotism this morning. Since Aura's death many things appeared different to her.

"Isn't the room beautifully constructed for preaching, too? I had an idea that was partly what churches were built for. To hear you talk one would think the chief end of churches was to listen to tenor solos."

"Why, Vi," said Victor with open-eyed surprise "What's the matter? Don't you want me to sing? Isn't that what you are going for this morning? To hear me?"

"No," said Victoria somewhat slowly. "I am going to hear John King preach."

Victor said nothing and they walked on. Finally he burst out,

"Well, I call that encouraging! Here is the very thing happening that you wanted. I've got a splendid position and you take the heart all out of a fellow--"

"No! no!" Victoria cried in real distress, laying her hand on her brother's arm. "I am sorry. I am proud and glad. I did not mean to hurt you, dear. I only meant--" She hesitated and Victor said good naturedly, "you only meant that you preferred John King's preaching to my singing. That's all right. But wail until I've been singing as long as he has been in the pulpit and then see--" Victor elevated his chin and walked on complacently and Victoria smiled at his boundless vanity albeit she sighed a little, too, as she seriously thought of the approaching separation from him when he would be left practically all alone to work out his career for himself.

When they reached the church she spoke a word of loving encouragement and sympathy to him and he went around to the organist's door with a smile of satisfaction on his eager young face, while she went in and was shown to a seat quite well up in front, and as it was very early, she sat for several minutes with the great church softly quiet about her, her mind filled with Aura, with the promise to her memory, with the coming week, and its new life to her, with the father and with Victor, and then, as the church began rapidly to fill up, with his voice and its great possibilities.

The service began and she was lifted up by it. Worship was a part of the service in John King's church. Something at the very beginning struck the chord that vibrated with her late experience helpfully and went to swell the tide of her better emotions and open the view upon her own responsibilities. The service grew in helpfulness as it went on. Victor was to sing after the sermon. That was John King's arrangement. He believed in music as a power to sway hearts and make men lead better lives. And he very often wanted his spoken truth to go home to his hearers winged with harmony.

One or two points in the sermon came very near to Victoria's thought this particular morning. She was not in the habit of attending church. Sho often went out into one of the parks with Victor or else spent the day with her music at home or with some musical acquaintance. The old truths came to her as she sat in the church this time with a new and thoughtful meaning. The text was one that remained with her all through her professional career.

"Give, and it shall be given unto you."

"The law of give and get," said the preacher, "runs all through life everywhere. It is true of the natural world, the business world, the spiritual world. Jesus simply announced a great and eternal law when he said that if a man expects to get he must give. Nature is always lavish with its sowing of germ life. I counted one hundred and fifty seeds, last summer, in the ripened pod of one little modest wild plant growing with a hundred others on the prairie. By the profusion with which plant and animal life reproduces itself, nature responds to the great law of giving with a hand that never shuts, in astonishing liberality. In honest business, with rare exceptions, it is the enterprise and liberality of large expenditure that brings back a corresponding return. In spiritual things the same law holds good. Men never grow better by means of selfish nursing of their virtues but always by the giving out of all that is best in them for the good of others. Especially is this true in the case of some talent or gift greater than ordinary. Ole Bull the violinist once said, "If I do not practice on my instrument for twenty four hours I notice a loss in skill, and if I let forty-eight hours go by without practicing my friends notice it, and if I should not practice for three days the public would notice it.' It was only by giving his time and his strength and his energy and his desire to the accomplishment of his purpose that the great violinist could get the world's applause or gain its affection. If any soul anywhere in this audience is hungry for righteousness it will be filled. But it must hunger. God does not fill any soul with Himself unless that soul has emptied itself, has sacrificed, given up its pride and deceit and everything that it once held close to itself. Nothing worth having is ever gained without sacrifice. There must always be a giving up in order to get anything worth having back again. If the farmer would have a crop he must give his seed grain. He must throw it into the ground. If he sells it or eats it he will have nothing when harvest time comes. If the man of business would have, he must put his money to use, he must give to trade or to ventures of commerce his capital or he will have no more than he holds, and if he lives off his capital he will grow poored every day. In the building of character the same great law is found. We live and grow by what we sacrifice. He that loseth his life shall find it. Give and it shall be given unto you. Give kindly thoughts and loving deeds to the sorrowing and the despairing and you will get happiness. Give love in return for hate and you will get the peace of God. Give your talent to make the world better and you will get daily joy in the sweet consciousness of using a God-given power in a God-given way. He who never gives either of his means or his time, of best of all, himself, to lift the world nearer into the light of eternal things, never know the pleasure of getting. For getting is always dependent on giving. What can we give this morning to Him who gave His life a ransom for many? If we have nothing to give but ourselves, that may be the most precious gift of all. ‘A broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.' And then once given back, into the life will flow the sweet waters of the River of God's peace, worth more than wealth or fame or anything that earth can give. 'Give and it shall be given unto you.' This is the divine law of compensation. This is the great law of sacrifice, the end of which is Paradise and not Calvary."

The preacher ceased suddenly as his habit was, and Victor rose to sing. His solo was a new rendering of music with the old words,

"I gave my life for thee,
What hast thou given to Me?"

Victor had not been in the habit of singing religious music. Victoria wondered, as she listened with tears in her eyes, where the boy had found the experience that made him capable of singing such words in such an impressive way. The audience sat stilled and at the same time stirred by the pathos of the song. Many of those present had attended the concert. Over the congregation passed the tones clear, thrilling, in persuasion, entreaty, tenderness. Into the hearts of many, the thought passed through the medium of that wonderful power of music, "What have I given to the great Redeemer who gave all?" Surely Victor was preaching the sermon over again with redoubled power. When he ended, the prayer that followed brought the service tenderly, quietly impressively to a close. And the great audience, after remaining seated while the choir sang softly the amen, rose and went away, talking as they went, about the new tenor and his remarkable voice.

Victoria lingered, waiting for Victor, who at the close of the song had stepped back into the music room behind the organ. As he came out to join Victoria he met John King close by the steps leading down from the platform to the floor of the audience room.

King shook hands and said something to Victor but Victoria was too far away to hear. The two finally come down the platform steps together and as they came down the aisle to where Victoria stood, Victor introduced her.

"I am glad to see you tow together," said John King in his wholesome manner. "I had the great pleasure of hearing you both at the concert last week. Your brother tells me you are going away this week. You will be able to do great service with such a girt." He paused a moment, looking earnestly and thoughtfully at the twins as they stood together, then added, "I am very glad that your brother will remain with us, Miss Stanwood. I have just been asking him to become a member of our Question Class/ It meets at my house every Monday night. He has not promised me that he will come. I wish you would use your influence with him."

"What is the ‘Question Class?" asked Victoria.

"It's for those who come to find out. There! I'll leave it mysterious. Come tomorrow, young man, unless you are too busy helping your sister off on her travels. Yes, you will be, that's so. Say a week from tomorrow then. You'll be lonesome and need some friends. Come around." They were all outside the church now. John King went the other way. He shook hands as if he meant it, wished Victoria a thoughtful good by and with the hope that she would make the most of her life gift for the world's good, went away, leaving the twins looking after him and quite won to him by his simple unassuming manner.

"What was he saying to you, Vic, up on the platform?"

"He was inviting me to join the Question Class," replied Victor. He did not say any more and they walked on a little distance in silence. Finally Victor broke it by saying, "How did the singing sound? Was it all right?"

"You did beautifully. I could hear the words very distinctly. The room is perfect for singing."

Victor looked gratified. "Yes, I told you so. Do you think the people were satisfied?"

"Vanity of vanities, thy name is Victor," said Victoria. "Why do you ask? Couldn't you see that the people were under the influence? What did John King say? Did he compliment you?"

"No," said Victor shortly. "He never said a word. I thought he was going to but he didn't. He's queer sometimes, don't you think?"

Victoria laughed. Ten she sighed. At the moment they overtook a group of people, among them two young women acquaintances and the latter at once began to praise Victor.

"O, Mr. Stanwood, it was simply lovely. We shall go to John King's church every Sunday now."

"Will you?" Victor was at once basking in the sunshine of the adoration he hungered for. He lingered with the group until Victoria impatiently took his arm and drew him on.

"Come, Victor," she said when out of ear shot. "Don't let those girls make a fool of you. I have no patience with their gabble."

Victor looked a little annoyed. Then he laughed. "Well, Vi, they can't make a fool of me if I am one already, con they? And that's what you think, I know."

Victoria protested and by the time thy reached home they were at peace with each other and Victor was complacently humming over the morning solo as he went up to his room.

The week that followed was a busy one for Victoria. She had to prepare for her departure. It was a serious time in her life. She dreaded the thought of leaving Victor and the father alone. A competent servant had to be secured. Then she charged Victor with a hundred commands for the care of everything. She had never left her father before. That gave her the greatest anxiety. The future was full of possibilities for her and she did not lack courage, but what Victor would do, how he would assume the duties of manhood fast confronting him, was an unknown factor in the problem. She had all this to think about as she made her preparations. The life she was about to enter was full of unknown things. She felt equal to the professional part of it and when the day of her departure arrived she bade good by to the father bravely, only weeping a little after she turned away from him. Victor went to the station with her.

"After all, dear Vic, we shall not be so very fat away. Our longest run is only 500 miles. And we play tomorrow in D. you know. You won't forget all my instructions, will you? And accept John King's invitation for Monday. I want you to know him. It will be worth everything to have such a man's friendship. And above all, don't, don't go and fall in love with those Caxton girls you were talking with Sunday."

"You mean the ones that talked what you called 'gabble?'"

"Yes, I'm glad to see you remember so well. Be a good by now, won't you? Remember what we have at stake, to rise above our--"

Victor understood Victoria meant the disgrace of the father's condition. He grew unusually thoughtful. When he kissed Victoria good by, the tears came. He was a boy yet. She saw him turn as the train rolled out of the station and in his tear-blinded condition he stumbled into a man on the platform who knocked off his hat and the last glimpse Victoria caught of the brother as she looked back out of the window was a picture of him carefully brushing the dust from his hat with the anxiety for outside adornment that was peculiar to him in such a marked degree. And then the train carried her off into her new world. And Victor went home to face his new existence. And for both of them the days to come opened up and unrolled for them the life that new is, with a rapidity and reality that they could not understand at the time because much of it all was so new, so serious, and so profound with meaning.

~ end of chapter 2 ~