has cracked upon a high
note; and _the_ solo of the evening has proved a dead failure.

Talk of failing for a million; talk of Isandula or Majuba Hill; talk
of Mr. Parnell and the Coercion Bill! But was ever defeat so
disastrous as this? The vicar, but for his sex, and the publicity of
the thing, could thankfully have given way to tears. Miss Peyton
flushes to her temples and feels as if she herself has been guilty of
the miserable _fiasco_.

Of course it is hushed up. The piano comes out quite strong again,
under Mrs. Redmond's bony fingers; the defaulter is gently pushed into
the background, and a chorus introduced. Nevertheless, after the
breakdown, things somehow seem to go wrong. The other singers are
disheartened, and will not do their best; while Sarah, who is
dissolved in tears in the cloak-room, and who has another song on the
programme, obstinately refuses to try her powers again.

The vicar is in despair, although he walks about valiantly among the
audience, trying, most unsuccessfully, to appear unconcerned; whilst
the coughing and sneezing, that generally distinguish every place
where silence is the thing most to be desired, seem now on the
increase, to an alarming degree, and threaten to drown Lady Mary's
second effort.

"Who _is_ that blowing his nose?" demands the poor vicar, testily,
looking daggers in the direction of the sound. Clarissa, who is the
nearest to him as he makes this observation, just saves herself from
laughing aloud.

"Things have taken a bad turn," says the vicar, regarding her
reproachfully. "I am afraid my first attempt will only be remembered
as a wretched failure; and that girl has another song, and she will
not venture again, and there is no one to take her place."

"Mr. Redmond, I will sing for you, if you wish it," says a clear,
childish voice, that has always something pathetic about it. Georgie
has overheard his last speech, and has turned her soft, fair little
face to his, and is speaking to him, with a flush and a smile.

"But, my dear, can you sing?" says the vicar, anxiously. Her face is
full of music; but then he has never heard her sing. During her
fortnight's stay at the vicarage she has never sung one note, has
never betrayed the fact that she is a true daughter of Polyhymnia.

"I can, indeed,--really; I can sing very well," says Georgie, in her
little earnest fashion, and without the very faintest suspicion of
conceit. She is only eager to reassure him, to