quarter of an hour,
so it seemed to me, we had grown almost intimate--she and I.

Alresca's man was awaiting us in the portico of the Devonshire, and
without a word he led us to his master. Alresca lay on his back on a
couch in a large and luxuriously littered drawing-room. The pallor of
his face and the soft brilliance of his eyes were infinitely pathetic,
and again he reminded me of the tragic and gloomy third act of
"Tristan." He greeted us kindly in his quiet voice.

"I have brought the young man," said Rosa, "and now, after I have
inquired about your health, I must go. It is late. Are you better,
Alresca?"

"I am better now that you are here," he smiled. "But you must not go
yet. It is many days since I heard a note of music. Sing to me before
you go."

"To-night?"

"Yes, to-night."

"What shall I sing?"

"Anything, so that I hear your voice."

"I will sing 'Elsa's Dream.' But who will accompany? You know I simply
can't play to my own singing."

I gathered together all my courage.

"I'm an awful player," I said, "but I know the whole score of
'Lohengrin.'"

"How clever of you!" Rosa laughed. "I'm sure you play beautifully."

Alresca rewarded me with a look, and, trembling, I sat down to the
piano. I was despicably nervous. Before the song was finished I had
lost everything but honor; but I played that accompaniment to the most
marvellous soprano in the world.

And what singing! Rosa stood close beside me. I caught the golden
voice at its birth. Every vibration, every shade of expression, every
subtlety of feeling was mine; and the experience was unforgettable.
Many times since then have I heard Rosa sing, many times in my hearing
has she excited a vast audience to overwhelming enthusiasm; but never,
to my mind, has she sung so finely as on that night. She was
profoundly moved, she had in Alresca the ideal listener, and she sang
with the magic power of a goddess. It was the summit of her career.

"There is none like you," Alresca said, and the praise of Alresca
brought the crimson to her cheek. He was probably the one person
living who had the right to praise her, for an artist can only be
properly estimated by his equals.

"Come to me, Rosa," he murmured, as he took her hand in his and kissed
it. "You are in exquisite voice to-night," he said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You have been excited; and I notice that you always sing best
under excitement."

"Perhaps," she replied. "The fact is, I have just