s
away from her down to the floor, and lies there; while her hands,
seeking each other, grow entwined, and hang loosely before her,
showing like little flakes of snow against the darkness of her gown.

Her voice is beautiful, sweet, and full, and quick with passion,--one
of those exquisite voices that sink into the soul, and linger there
forever, even when the actual earthly sound has died away. She carries
the listeners with her, holding them as by a spell, and leaving them
silent, almost breathless, when she has finished her "sweet song."

Now she has come to the end of "Shule, agra," and turns away somewhat
abruptly to Mrs. Redmond, as though half frightened at the storm of
applause that greets her.

"Did I really sing so well?" she asked the vicar, presently, when he
has sought her out to thank her.

"Well?" repeats he. "What a word to use! It was divine; the whole room
was spell-bound. What a gift you possess! My dear, you have saved the
evening, and my honor, and the organ, and everything. I am deeply
grateful to you."

"How glad I am!" says the girl, softly; "and don't thank me. I liked
it,--the singing, the applause, the feeling that I was doing well. I
will sing for you again later on, if you wish it."

"It is too much to ask," says the vicar; "but, if you really don't
mind? Lady Patricia is in ecstasies, and says she could listen to you
forever."

Georgie laughs.

"Well, at least she shall listen to me once more," she says, gayly.

Lady Patricia is not the only one enthralled by the beautiful singer.
Dorian Branscombe has never once removed his eyes from her face: he is
as one bewitched, and, even at this early moment, wonders vaguely
within himself what can be the meaning of the strange pleasure, that
is so near akin to pain, that is tugging at his heart-strings.

Lord Alfred, too, is plainly impressed, and stares at the pretty
creature with the black gown and the snowy arms, until speech becomes
a necessity.

"Well, I never in all my life," he begins, emphatically, and then
stops. "Who is she, Branscombe?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," says Branscombe, rather shortly. What right
has Hort--what right has any fellow--to see beauty in her, except
himself? The words of her song are still running in his ears,--"My
love, my pearl!" How well they suit her! What a little baby face she
has, so pure and sweet! yet how full of feeling!

"What's her name?" asks Lord Alfred, nothing daunted.

"I have quite