d. That's half the pleasure."

She looked so wistful out of her soft eyes, and patted his hand with her
caressing little fingers, of course he couldn't say No.

It was so much harder to persuade Mrs. Underhill. "It certainly _was_
wicked to spend so much money just to hear one woman sing. She had heard
the 'Messiah,' with Madame Anna Bishop in it; and she never again
expected to hear anything so beautiful this side of heaven."

They carried the day, however, in spite of her objections. Castle Garden
looked like fairyland, with its brilliant lights, its hundred ushers in
white gloves and rosettes, their wands tipped with ribbon as if for some
grand ball. The quiet was awe-inspiring. One did not even want to
whisper to his neighbour, but just sit in fascinated silence and wonder
what it would be like.

Then Jenny Lind was led on the stage, and the entire audience rose with
one vast, deafening cheer,--a magnificent one, as hearty as on her first
night. It seemed as if they would never stop. There was a cloud of
waving handkerchiefs, shaking out fragrance in the air.

A simple Swedish maiden in her gown of soft, white silk, with no blaze
of diamonds, and just one rose low down in her banded hair, only her
gracious sweetness and simplicity, a thousand times finer and more
effective than flashing beauty. She has heard the applause many a time
before, in audiences of crowned heads; and this from the multitude is
just as sweet.

When all is listening, attentive silence, she begins "Casta Diva." "Hark
to the voice," and every one listens with such intensity that the
magnificent sound swells out and fills the farthest space. There is no
striving for effect. A woman singing with a God-given voice, in simple
thanks for its ownership, not a queen bidding for admiration. Had any
voice ever made such glorious melody, or so stirred human souls?

The applause has in it an immensity of appreciation, as if it could
never get itself wholly expressed.

Then another favourite, which everybody sang at for years afterward: "I
dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." In some of the sorrows of her
womanhood, the little girl was to recall the sweet refrain--

"That you loved me still the same."

Then "Comin' thro' the Rye," with a lilt and dainty deliciousness that
one never can forget. But "Home, Sweet Home," moves to tears and
enthusiasm. Surely, no voice ever put such pathos, such marvellous
sweetness, into it!

And sometimes now, whe