rm-in-arm, decked in their Vandyke hats, slashed with red ribbons
and crowned with ostrich feathers, with their free step, their shrill
voices--they were there before everybody's eyes, everybody could see
them, everybody could recognise them, and before the end of the first
verse there were shouts and squeals of laughter.

Glory felt dizzy yet self-possessed; she gave a little audible laugh
while she stood bowing between the verses. In a few minutes the song was
finished and the people were stamping, whistling, uttering screeching
cat-calls, and shouting "Brayvo!" But Glory was sitting at the foot of
the stage by this time with a face contorted as in physical pain. After
the first thrill of success the shame of it all came over her and she saw
how low she had fallen, and felt horrified and afraid. The clamour, the
clapping of hands, the vulgar faces, the vulgar laughter, the vulgar
song, Sunday night, her own birthday! It all passed before her like the
incidents in some nightmare, and at the back of it came other
memories--Glenfaba, the sweet and simple household, the old parson
smoking by the study fire and looking up at the evening star, and then
John Storm and the church chimes at Bishopsgate! One moment she sat there
with her burning face, staring helplessly before her, while people
crowded round to shake hands with her and cried into her ears above the
deafening tumult, "You'll have to tyke another turn, dear"; and then she
burst into passionate weeping.

"Stand avay! De lady's not fit to sing again," said some one, and she
opened her eyes.

It was one of the two gentlemen who had been standing at the back.

"Ach Gott! Is it you? Don't you know me, nurse?"

It was Mr. Koenig, the organist.

"My gracious! Vot are you doing here, my child? Two monts ago I haf ask
for you at de hospital, and haf write to de matron, but you vere gone.
Since den I haf look for you all over London. Vhere do you lif?"

Glory told him, and he wrote down the address.

"Ugh! A genius, and lif in a tobacco shop! My vife vill call on you and
fetch you avay. She is a goot woman, and vhatever she tell you to do you
must do it; but not musical and clever same like as you. Bless mine soul!
Singing in a Sunday club! Do you know, my child, you haf a voice, and
talents, great talents! Vants training--yes. But vhat vould you haf? Here
am I, Carl Koenig! I speak ver' bad de Englisch, but I know ver' goot to
teach music. I vill teach you same li