come, Oliver touched him on the arm.

"Miss Brooke is going to sing, please," he said. "Will you announce
her?"

Mr. Brooke stared hard for a moment, then bowed his head.

"My daughter will now sing to you," he said, curtly, and sat down again,
grasping his brown beard with one hand.

"_Can_ she sing?" Mrs. Romaine said in his ear, with an accent of veiled
surprise.

"I do not know in the least. I hope it will be English, at any rate.
These good people don't care for French and Italian things."

Mrs. Romaine saw that he looked undoubtedly nervous, and just then
Oliver began the prelude to Lesley's song. It was certainly English
enough. It was "Home, Sweet Home."

Every one looked up at the sound of the familiar air. "Hackneyed" as
Oliver had declared it to be, it is a song which every audience loves to
hear. And Lesley made a pretty picture for the eyes to rest upon while
she sang. She was dressed from top to toe in a delicate shade of grey,
which suited her fair skin admirably: the grey was relieved by some
broad white ribbons and a vest of soft white silk folds, according to
the prevailing fashion. A wide-brimmed grey hat, trimmed with drooping
grey ostrich feathers, also became her extremely well. Mrs. Romaine
noticed that Caspar Brooke looked at her hard for a minute or two, and
then sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, his right hand forming a
pillow for his left elbow, and his left hand engaged in stroking his big
brown beard. What she did not notice was, that Maurice Kenyon had
withdrawn himself to a post behind Mr. Brooke's chair, where he could
see and not be seen; and that his eyes were riveted upon the fair singer
with an expression which betokened more perplexity than admiration.

As Lesley's pure, sweet notes floated out upon the air, there was an
instant stir of approbation and interest among the listeners. If the
girl had been less intent upon her singing, the unmoved and unmoving
stare of these men and women might have made her a little nervous. It
was their way of showing attention. The men had even put down their
pipes. But Lesley did not see them. She had chosen her song at
haphazard, as one which these people were likely to understand; but its
painful appropriateness to her own case, perhaps to her mother's case as
well, only came home to her as she continued it.

"'Mid pleasures and palaces--though I may roam--
Be it never so humble, there's no place like home.
A charm from