e appeared at first sight. Her hands were clasped, and she was
apparently deep in thought. She was clad in a gown of some soft shimmery
white material, which fell in graceful folds about her, and in the clear
beams of the moon looked like a robe of woven silver. Round her throat
was a row of pearls, and in her dark brown hair were two or three diamond
pins.

As Elsie Severn returned and came towards her, she lifted her head, and
her face could be distinctly seen. A very sweet face it was, too, albeit
not that of a woman in the first freshness of her youth.

The eyes were dark and bright, the forehead broad and low, with lines of
strong determination marked on it. The mouth, that most characteristic
feature, was somewhat large and expressive. But the successful prima
donna's face wore a not altogether happy expression, though when she
spoke the sad look went out of it; only when in repose it was always
there.

"Well, Mademoiselle Laurentia, how is your head now? Better, I hope?"

"Yes, dear, the pain is quite gone now. And how did your dinner-party go
off?"

"Oh! very well. I sat next The McAllister, and he was a little more
lively than usual. He is most anxious to meet you. You know he comes from
Canada."

"Yes, I know," said Mademoiselle Laurentia abruptly.

"Did you ever meet him there?" went on Elsie.

"I used to know a family called McAllister a long time ago, when I was
quite young."

"Indeed? But, mademoiselle, don't talk as if you were a hundred. I'm sure
you don't look much older than I."

"In years, perhaps, I am not so very much older; but in thought, Elsie, a
century."

"Poor Mademoiselle Laurentia, your life has been a hard one, in spite of
all its success. I don't want to intrude, but I often think you must have
had some great sorrow. Have you?"

"Yes, my dear, I have. I cannot talk of it to-night, though. No, no, not
to-night at any rate."

Elsie rather wondered why she laid such particular stress on the present
time, but did not like to pursue the subject.

"Elsie, would you like me to sing for you now?" asked Mademoiselle
Laurentia suddenly. "This garden is an inspiration."

"Yes, I should, above all things, if you feel well enough."

"Then what shall it be? Choose."

"Oh! if you please, Gounod's Slumber-song. This is just the time and
place for it."

Accordingly, with only the rippling of the fountain as an accompaniment,
the sweet clear notes rose, and the highly-trained voice o