On the evening of the day that Victoria sailed for Liverpool, two gentlemen were dining together at a fashionable restaurant on Broadway, New York.

After the first courses had been eaten and the diners were waiting for the dessert, one of them said to the other, "Have you heard the new tenor at the Concert Hall?

No, I have heard of him. Suppose we go and hear him this evening."

"Very well. I have heard him once but don't mind going again. The young fellow certainly has a very remarkable voice."

"I understand that he is a brother of the violin player who has had such a successful season in this country and has now gone abroad."

"Yes, they are twins, I understand. Come of a musical family. The father is dissipated, I've heard. The boy started in the sing in John King's church, Chicago."

"Quite a change from John King's church to the new Concert hall."

"Not a change for the better morally I should say."

"Well hardly." The speaker laughed as he took up an evening paper and changed the subject by reading items of news about town.

At the hour of the performance at the new Concert Hall the two gentlemen went together. They were old theater and concert goers and nothing in the evening's program specially interested them. It was not of a very refined character and that was the reason probably that the large audience, composed mostly of young men about town, seemed to enjoy it so much. About the middle of the first half of the program Victor came on and sang. It was a simple ballad but he sung it exquisitely. Simply as a complete change from the coarse horse play and coarser songs that had preceded him it came to the jaded, sated theater-goers like a cup of clear cool sweet spring water after a night's debauch. He came back and sang a little piece that had some reference in it to Home or Mother. It was astonishing to note the effect of in on that mixed audience. Tears were to be seen on very many faces. The old man in the orchestra who played the bass viol and who had seen and heard in his theatrical life-time a great deal, wiped away at his eyes without any attempt at concealment from the rest of the players. There was something in the voice that touched the sensibilities of the people. Something so delicate, so sweetly penetrating, so persuasive, that hearts were moved that had not felt the touch of emotion be anything preached or prayed by the human voice for many years.

It was that quality in his voice that make Victor a power with audiences. The manager of the new Concert Hall was shrewd enough to see that the most taking songs that Victor could sing were simple ballads with sentiment enough in them to appeal to certain common feelings. And these were the songs Victor sang. He occupied a curious position in the new Concert Hall. He was surrounded by a class of people who were for the most part coarse and immoral. The place itself was frequented by amusement seekers who were of the same character. And Victor himself was fast going the downward road and losing every day in his new life the virtue and gentleman purity of soul that Victoria once knew. And yet when the evening's hour for the concert came, he sang with a voice like an angel's like a spotless sinless seraph, songs that contrasted so completely with everything in the rest of the program that for the brief five or ten minutes in all that he appeared, a new spirit swept over the restless, thoughtless, swearing, drinking, dissipated crowd before him. It was a performance so unusual, so striking from its very contrast with the rest of the Concert Hall program, that it created much comment in the city. Gradually new faces appeared at the concerts. The people who were ashamed of themselves for being found in such rough surroundings came just to hear Victor. And in a short time he was, to the gratification of his unbounded vanity, one of the most talked about young men in New York. He grew in importance with himself and with the Concert Hall Manager and demanded an increase of salary which was granted at once. This led to grave results, but first let us account for Victor's change of position from singer in ST. Mark's Avenue Cathedral to the New Concert Hall, New York.

When Victoria's father told her that Victor had quarreled with him he did not tell her all the details which led up to the quarrel. In brief they were these.

Victor had discovered in some way shortly after the money was sent to his sister that he was legally entitled to a certain sum when he came of age. He had then tried to persuade his father to get the money at once. It could not be done without swearing falsely as to Victor's age. This the father refused to do. Victor had become passionately angry and reproached his father for having sent the money to his sister. In his anger he left home threatening never to come back. He had lost nearly every cent he possessed in gambling and in lottery tickets. He was desperate and out of humor with the world. That was one reason he would not write Victoria after she had written that she could not let him have any more money until he could use it right. He had only one thing that was of any real value and that was his voice. It was a natural gift, so remarkable that training and practice simply gave it larger opportunity. About this time the manager of the new Concert Hall, New York, happened to be in Chicago and heard Victor one evening at St. Mark's Avenue. He was deeply impressed with the possibilities of such a voice for concert-hall work. He at once made advances to Victor in his depressed and bankrupt condition eagerly accepted the terms offered although they were only a little better than these he was offered by the church people. He was angry with his father, with Victoria, and with the world in general. He wanted to get away, and so in a few weeks he was in New York and the success of his engagement there was unmistakable from the beginning. The afternoon that Victoria sailed for Liverpool, Victor had come down to see some acquaintances who were sailing by the same vessel. They had been members of the concert-hall company and were going to join other players in London for a brief season. Victor had not known anything of Victoria's movements. When he heard his name called that day it came to him with a startling strangeness. Then he had looked up and seen his sister. The nest instance the vessel had swung Victoria out of view. He was hedged in by the people on the wharf and could not move. And yet at that moment all the old love for Victoria flamed back and he would have given his voice, almost. For an opportunity to speak to her. When the figure of Victoria again came in view himself and thought regretfully of old times when he could look Victoria in the face lovingly and without concealment. And yet such is the power of passion, that very night, after the concert was over, found Victor in one of the most noted gambling clubs in New York, his whole life absorbed in the chances of the dice. Poor soul! What a choice you have made! What a master you have elected to serve!

The evening of the question class had come around and Tom and Richard were taking tea with John King. They were talking over people and things in a very informal way when Richard said suddenly, "By the way, what has become of that young tenor singer who made such a stir for a while here? He came to the class one night. I haven't seen of heard of him since."

Richard had been out of the city a good deal and had not kept track of all the news.

"Why, don't you know? He is in New York singing in a concert-hall there."

"What do you know about him, Tom?" John King asked gravely.

"One of my newspaper friends there wrote me the other day that he saw Stanwood in a big gambling club one night. He is going the way he started here."

"What a pity! What a pity! And such a gift as he has. I can remember the effect of his singing in the church. I never knew a more remarkable result to follow the singing of a song. I have seen tears flowing down the faces of people in church who were never known to shed a tear on any other occasion. And yet the boy himself never felt the real truth of what he sang."

"How do you account for that, sir?" asked Tom.

John King was silent a minute.

"I don't account for it. I only know that people were moved by the tones of his voice to a temporary emotion that expressed itself strongly. I don't think the result was ever very permanent. That is, it never led to any great change in people's lives that I am aware of. But for the time being the effect was certainly very powerful. I feel sorry for the father and sister.

"The violinist? You remember, Dick we heard her play the night of her debut."

"Yes. The playing was very much like the singing. Only it was even better. The girl played with her soul. The boy sang with his voice."

"The effect on the audience was the same."

"Not quite. I believe there was a difference. The voice had the advantage in being alive. But the instrument somehow seemed to have more to say. Al least that was the impression I received."

The talk branched out into a discussion on the art and office of music of which all three, especially King, were passionately fond. Then the members of the class began to arrive after tea and the two large front rooms filled up with animated talk.

"I wish my question might be answered to-night," said Miss Fergus who in spite of her assertion that she had nothing in the world to do was very prompt and regular in her attendance on the Question Class.

"What is your question?" asked Tom.

"As if I should tell!"

"I shall know anyhow when John King reads it. I can tell the authors of almost all the questions by this time."

"You can't guess what mine is, I know," replied Miss Fergus confidently.

"Didn't you put in that question last week, ‘Is Life worth living?'"

"Well, what if I did. Anyone might have asked it."

"And that other one, ‘Does it pay to be unselfish?'"

"I refuse to be examined in such a --"

"I knew that was yours, Miss Fergus," chuckled Tom. "I an a mind reader. There is a certain style of question that certain people always ask if they ask any."

Miss Fergus was about to reply when John King broke in good naturedly,

"Now Tom, you are always teasing Miss Fergus. I feel like taking her part and I don't believe you can tell what her question is if we come to it to-night. It is a good question and it gave me a hard day's work."

"Thank you." Miss Fergus beamed in triumph and Tom pretended to feel crushed.

"I shall cough and say ‘ahem' when your question comes up," he said. "You will know by the signal that I recognized the earmarks of your mind," Tom continued, mixing his metaphors recklessly.

John King smiled as if he thought Tom had promised more than he could do and as time had come to begin he called the class to order and began the reading rapidly.

Question. "Do you think foot ball is a good game for college students to play?"

"There are so many of the University boys here to-night," said John King looking around cautiously, "that I feel as if it would be more healthy for me to say yes. I shall say yes with proper qualifications. You know very well that I believe in doing everything to the glory of God. It does not make any difference whether it is teaching a Sunday School Class, preaching a sermon or playing foot ball. There is a great opportunity in a game of foot ball to develop courage, evenness of temper, quickness, generalship, in short very many of the best qualities necessary to help a young man in the struggle of life. Some of the most promising, useful young men in the ministry, in medicine, in law, in business, that I know are men who took an active healthy Christian part in athletics while in college. A game of foot ball can be played by twenty-two Christian students in such a way as to be of great benefit to them. Yes, I think it is a good game for college students to play under there conditions. When it is made a professional exhibition for Thanksgiving day or made the occasion for gambling or betting or abused with brutality I condemn it as a college sport. But as a game in itself as it can be played and is played in many Christian colleges I believe in it."

Question. "Do you think it is wrong to dance?"

"Not if you dance to the glory of God. ‘Therefore whether ye eat or drink or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory or God.' If you can dance in accordance with that standard of human life go ahead. If it is impossible for you to dance and remain a pure happy growing Christian and if you feel that the dancing is keeping you and others from the Christian life of growth and usefulness then it is wrong for you. But does any one think he can dance to the glory of God?"

Question. "I know a girl who does housework for a living. She is honest and intelligent. She belongs to a church and is a faithful member. She gives a thousand times more towards the support of the church services in proportion to her means than the rich banker who is also a member of the same church. Yet she is snubbed by the other girls in the church and Sunday School and is not invited out to socials or parties because she is a house servant. Do you think such action is Christian? Do you think the girl ought to do something else in order to gain the friendship of the other girls in the church?"

"No. In answer to both questions. The action of the other girls in pagan. There is no Christianity in it anywhere. But I do not believe the girl ought to do something else to gain their friendship. The friendship of such girls cannot be worth much if it is based on the condition of belonging to the same circle so far as an occupation is concerned. Honest labor is worthy of respect anywhere from anyone. There is no reason why a girl who works in a kitchen as a servant should not be treated with the same courtesy and regard if she is worthy of it, as the girl who makes her living in an office with a typewriter or behind a counter selling gloves or ribbons. One of Christ's most intimate friends was a woman who did daily work in the kitchen. Those persons who disdain or despise another on account of the work they do for a living are very much in need of conversion, even if their names are on the church roll as members. They may be members of the church but they are not true disciples of the humble Carpenter of Nazareth who took upon himself the form of a servant and did the commonest acts of service that men ever perform in this earthly life."

Question. "I have always had a great longing to go on the stage and be an actress. Is that longing wicked? Haven't I a right to the life of an actress if that is what I was intended for?"

"Yes. The Lord wants us to be what we were intended for. It is one thing, however, to long to be an actress and another thing to be one. Perhaps no public career calls for more courage or physical endurance and intellectual gifts of a high order than the life of an actress. I am speaking of course of one who has the highest possible view of a profession. Doing it all like anything else to the glory of God. There have been some good examples of devout Christian women who have made the stage a profession. Charlotte Cushman was one of them. If all the actresses had her nobility of purpose and performance, going to the theater would be almost as religious and spiritual a duty as going to the prayer meeting or a church service. If you are sure the Lord designed you to go on the stage, by all means go on. Perhaps after trying it you will find the public is not so convinced of your ability as you are. But in any case if you are convinced that you were intended to be an actress remember it was the Lord's design that first of all you should be a noble, pure, true, unselfish Christian woman. If you can be all that and make acting your life work there is no doubt you ought to be an actress. But can you be an actress to the glory of God?"

Question. "Do you think it pays a boy to work his way through college?"

"Depends something on the boy. If he has the stuff in him and is bound to go through college and get a thorough education he will generally do it. And when he gets to be a man he will always tell you it paid. I never knew a man who had worked his way through college, say that he was sorry. Of course it does not pay to break down in health trying to get through college. That is bad investment. But supposing a boy has good health and other advantages, it pays to work his way through college. He will say so to himself when he graduates and goes out into the world."

Question. "Do you believe in a personal devil? And if so why?"

"I do. I never saw him but I believe in him. Why? Because I believe that Bible teaches us something more than an abstract impersonal influence called evil. Then I find a certain mental relief in thinking of a live being whom I am fighting. Those are a few of my reasons for believing as I do."

Question. "You have said so often that everything we do should be done to the glory of God. Aren't there some things we can do, without having anything to do with the glory of God and still be good Christians?"

"Name some of they."

"John King looked over the room and as he sometimes, not often, did, he threw the question open for general discussion. Tom suggested in rather a subdued voice for him, "Mathematics."

"Well, if you do mathematics so as to know more, or to learn habits of exactness and discipline, may it not be to the glory of Him who has made for the first law of heaven, according to one great man, order?"

"I don't see where practicing the piano or washing dishes or making bread or any of those things has anything to do with glorifying God," said one of the class, a matter of fact girl who evidently disliked the things she mentioned.

"And yet there is a right and a wrong spirit to possess in doing even the common tasks of daily drudgery. A girl may wash dishes in a temper and injure herself in character seriously. I remember reading somewhere of a servant who lost a very valuable position in a nobleman's house because in a fit of impatience while washing dishes one day she broke a piece of china that had been in the family two hundred years. I have never forgotten the lesson which that little story impressed on my childhood imagination. If she had been doing her drudgery to the glory of God she would probably have been happy and careful in her work. It is so with anything. Pianos can be practiced, bread can be made, everything done as a part of life all of which is in the loving care and sympathy of God. Life is not divided up into the things that belong to God and the things that he has no interest in or right to. It all belongs to him. That is the true teaching of Christianity. That is what lies at the foundation of all society and of all individual life worth having. It is loving God and our neighbor with all the heart, mind, soul and strength that makes the exact difference between paganism and Christianity, between Sunday religion and every day religion."

Question. "What would you say to a young man who had begun to smoke cigarettes?"

"I would say don't. If I was a girl and the young man thought a good deal of me I would tell him I could not endure such a habit in any friend of mine and if he thought I didn't mean it I would use my privilege as a woman to make him know that I did mean it."

Question. "Why is it that two boys brought up in equally good families with the same advantages and privileges will grow up to be so entirely different. One of them is gentle, courteous, refined, gentlemanly. The other ties tin cans to dogs' tails, tortures dumb animals, plagues his sisters, bullies other and smaller boys and creates a small riot wherever he goes. And yet both boys are the product of Christian civilization and their surroundings seem to be about the same."

"But probably their surroundings are not at all the same. I cannot answer your question without knowing something about the ancestry and home training of these boys. They take after their great grandfathers as much perhaps as after their own parents. The question of heredity comes in and cuts a large figure in any such question."

"Question. "Don't you think people who do what they please have a more comfortable time than the folks who are always asking themselves 'Is this right? Is this to the glory of God?'"

"they miss a great deal of struggle and a good deal of responsibility. Yes, I don't know but they seem to be more comfortable for the time being. But we don't see the end from the beginning. A man may have a pretty comfortable time in this world who does what he pleases and never asks himself 'Is this right? Is it to the glory of God?' But there is another world coming and the man will have to face that. We shall all have to be judged for the deeds done in the body on the basis of whether they were good or bad. The uncomfortable time will come to the man then. I don't know as we can say that a man has led a comfortable or an uncomfortable existence until we get to the Judgment. That will decide it very plainly. And even here in this world I never can believe that, take it all the year around, the bad or the immoral or careless man can be happier than the man who tries to do right and asks before he does anything 'Is it right?' It is fun to do right. There is peace and happiness in being good and making life happy for other people. Selfish people are not happy. They escape a good many responsibilities. But they don't know the deepest joys of life."

"Question. "Do you believe the time will come when woman suffrage will be the law of the United States?"

"Yes."

Question. "If it is excusable in my brother to smoke and drink and swear and do about as he pleases why should not society allow me, his sister, to do the same thing and excuse me?"

"Your brother is no more excusable for doing those things than you would be, and society has no right to make any distinction between an evil life lived by a man and an evil life lived by a woman. Both should be judged by exactly the same standard."

Question. "I don't like to go to the church prayer meeting but I go from a sense of duty. Do you think I ought to go feeling that way?"

"No. You ought to enjoy it. What is the matter? Is the minister dull and poky? Are the subjects talked about uninteresting? Are the prayers long and dried up? Could you do anything yourself to make the meeting pleasanter? Have you ever tried that? Or do you go to prayer meeting to be entertained and so feel personally disappointed because you are not? I don't like the idea of doing so many things because one ought to do them. If they are right and good there ought to be pleasure in them. A prayer meeting is the last place in the world to attend from a sense of duty. If it is not a pleasure I doubt the benefit you get from it."

Question. "Is the world growing better or worse?"

"Ahem!" coughed Tom looking over towards Miss Fergus. She colored as if she felt annoyed at first, then she smiled and finally in her careless, good-humored way she laughed. The class did not know what the joke was, but John King suddenly threw the question down, saying, "I don't feel like trying to answer this now. It is getting late. Tom, you are wrong. I am the only person besides the questioner who knows the author of the question. I want ten of you to bring answers of one sentence each, next week. Five of the young men may give a sentence to show that the world is growing better and five of the young women a sentence each to show that it is getting worse. I shall have to get to my work again now. Good night to you all!" And the class after selecting the ten members to bring in the sentences, departed, anticipating the coming Monday and discussing the probable sentences. It was like John King to confine each one to a sentence. That would compel the deepest thought and concentration.

Victoria was in London at last. She had seen parliament buildings and Westminister Abbey, had heard the roar of the Strand and gazed upon Nelson's monument and St. Paul's and London Bridge and had gone as far on the Thames as the Tower and Richmond.

Most of her time however was fully occupied with rehearsals and concerts. She was like all true artists, very conscientious and painstaking. She practiced three or four hours a day. Her public appearance had been greeted with great enthusiasm. She had instantly become a favorite. The manager was highly gratified. And Victoria felt pleased to think that she was doing her part to make the trip a success. After two weeks in London the company would go to Berlin and Paris, then back to England for a tour through the country towns, closing with London again.

At this time in her life Victoria was very happy. If it had not been for her sorrow at the thought of Victor she would have been, she told herself, the happiest person in all London. She wrote to Victor, getting his address from notices of theatrical news printed in the papers. She hoped to hear from him by the time she was in Berlin.

It was next to the last night in London that Victoria, coming off the stage after an encore, was sitting in the green room quietly as her usual custom was, going over her next music score, for she was on the program near the close, when she heard some one mention her name, "Stanwood."

Two English musicians who had been engaged to play in a Cantata given by the manager were in a corner of the green room talking over items in an evening paper which one of them had brought to the hall with him. Victoria caught the words "Victor," "New Concert Hall," "New York," "Sensation," "Forgery," "Arrest," and she went over to where the players were and said, trembling "Will you let me see the paper?"

One of the men with a stammering apology handed it to her saying, "Too bad, Miss Stanwood. ‘Pon honor, we never thought you were here."

Victoria had no difficulty in finding the article in reference to Victor. Under large head lines it read somewhat as follows:

"Last evening just as Victor Stanwood, the well-known tenor at the New Concert Hall, was about to go on for his part in the program he was arrested on a charge of forgery. He resisted the arrest and seriously wounded the officer. He was overcome and landed in the Tombs at just about the time he ordinarily bows his acknowledgements for an encore. The affair had created a sensation among the Concert Hall people. It is claimed that young Stanwood forged a check on the manager. The details have not been made known."

Victoria read it through and then sat down. She handed the paper back and paid no attention to the continued apologies of the confused players. She would have to go on the stage again soon. And Victor! The dearest person in the world to her was at that moment in a felon's position and possibly the man he had wounded would die and then - she shut out the thought as her heart beat wildly. The persons and things in the green room appeared unreal to her. She sat thus in perfect quiet, outwardly, it seemed to her for hours. Finally she was summoned for her turn and mechanically she rose with her violin and the next moment she was out on the stage, faces of people all about her, and the intent, eager, pleased looks everywhere of those who expect to hear the music of a master.

~ end of chapter 6 ~