r, moved slightly forward in his chair and
then sat motionless, the puzzled lines in his face relaxing like those
of a person passing into sleep. When the last long-drawn sigh died
away and merged into the drowsy murmur of the night outside, Jerry's
voice broke almost harshly upon the silence.

"I didn't know you could sing like that," he said. "It's wonderful,
but so--so hopeless."

"Something more cheerful, dear, 'Der Schmetterling,'" put in her
mother.

She sang again, this time lightly, joyously, and we re ponded to her
mood like harp-strings all in accord. The room, awakened to melody
after the long years of silence, seemed transformed by Una's splendid
gift, a fine, clear soprano, not big nor yet thin or reedy, but
rounded, full-bodied and deep with feeling. Jerry was smiling now, the
shadow seemed to have lifted.

"That's your song. It must have been written for you," he cried. "You
_are_ the butterfly girl when you sing like that."

"_Bis!_" cried Jack, clapping his hands.

She was very obliging and sang again and again. I was silent and quite
content. The shadow did not fall upon Jerry again that night. I was
almost ready to believe he had forgotten that such a person as Marcia
Van Wyck lived in the world. Who could have resisted the gentle appeal
of Una's purity, friendliness and charm? Not I. Nor Jack. He followed
the mood of her songs like a huge chameleon, silent when she sang of
sadness, tender when she sang of love, and joyous with her joy.

When she got up from the piano he rose.

"I wonder why I can find so few evenings like this," he sighed.

"It's so fearfully old-fashioned, Victorian, to be simple nowadays,"
she laughed.

"That's it," he cried. "The terror of your modern hostess, simplicity.
You can't go out to dine unless some madwoman drags you away from your
coffee to the auction table, where other madmen and madwomen scowl at
you all the evening over their cards. Or else they dance. Dance!
Dance! Hop! Skip! Not like joyous gamboling lambs but with set faces,
as though there was nothing else in the world but the martyrdom of
their feet. Mad! All mad! Please don't tell me that you dance, Miss
Habberton."

"I do," she laughed, "and I love it."

"Youth!" Jack sighed and relapsed into silence.

The evening passed in general conversation, interesting conversation
which the world, it seems, has come to think is almost a lost art, not
the least interesting part of which was Una's contrib