convince him of the
fact that she is worthy to come to his relief.

"But the song?" says Mr. Redmond, still hesitating, and alluding to
the second solo chosen by the defaulter.

"It is an old Irish song; I know it. It is 'Shule, agra,' and it
begins, 'My Mary with the curling hair,'" says Georgie, with a slight
nod. "I used to sing it long ago, and it is very pretty."

"Well, come," says the vicar, though with trepidation, and leads her
on to the platform, and up to Mrs. Redmond, to that good woman's
intense surprise.

Lady Mary has nearly brought her little vague whisper to an end. She
has at last disclosed to a listening audience that she has discovered
the real dwelling-place of the lost "Alice,"--who is uncomfortably
ensconced "amidst the starshine," if all accounts be true,--and is now
quavering feebly on a last and dying note.

"This is the song," says Mrs. Redmond, putting Sarah's rejected solo
into her hand.

"Thank you," says Miss Broughton She looks neither frightened nor
concerned, only a little pale, and with a great gleam in her eyes,
born, as it were, of an earnest desire to achieve victory for the
vicar's sake.

Then Lady Mary's final quaver dies, and she moves to one side,
leaving the space before the piano quite clear.

There is a slight pause; and then the slight childish figure, in its
gown of thin filmy black, comes forward, and stands before the
audience. She is quite self-possessed, but rather white, which has the
effect of rendering her large plaintive eyes darker and more lustrous
than usual. Her arms are half bare; her throat and part of her neck
can be seen gleaming white against the blackness of her dress. She is
utterly unadorned. No brooch or ear-rings, or bracelets or jewels of
any kind, can be seen. Yet she stands there before them a perfect
picture, more sweet than words can tell.

She holds her small shapely head erect, and seems unconscious of the
many eyes fixed upon her. Rarely has so fair a vision graced the dull
daily life of Pullingham. Even the sturdy, phlegmatic farmers stir
upon their seats, and nudge the partners of their joys, and wonder, in
a stage whisper, who "you can be?"

Mrs. Redmond plays a few faint chords, and then Georgie begins the
plaintive Irish air Sarah should have sung, and sings it as, perhaps,
she never sang before.

During the second verse, borne away by her passionate desire to
please, she forgets the music-sheet she holds, so that it flutter