h you before the evening's over," prophesied Mac with unabated
confidence, for he knew something the rest did not.

Rose said nothing, but under cover of her burnous gave Archie's hand a
sympathetic squeeze, for his arms were unfolded now, as if the strain
was over, and one lay on his knee while with the other he wiped his hot
forehead with an air of relief.

Friends about them murmured complimentary fibs and affected great
delight and surprise at Miss Moore's "charming style," "exquisite
simplicity," and "undoubted talent." But strangers freely criticized,
and Rose was so indignant at some of their remarks, she could not listen
to anything on the stage, though a fine overture was played, a man with
a remarkable bass voice growled and roared melodiously, and the orphans
sang a lively air with a chorus of "Tra, la, la," which was a great
relief to little tongues unused to long silence.

"I've often heard that women's tongues were hung in the middle and went
at both ends now I'm sure of it," whispered Charlie, trying to cheer her
up by pointing out the comical effect of some seventy-five open mouths
in each of which the unruly member was wagging briskly.

Rose laughed and let him fan her, leaning from his seat behind with the
devoted air he always assumed in public, but her wounded feelings were
not soothed and she continued to frown at the stout man on the left who
had dared to say with a shrug and a glance at Phebe's next piece, "That
young woman can no more sing this Italian thing than she can fly, and
they ought not to let her attempt it."

Phebe did, however, and suddenly changed the stout man's opinion by
singing it grandly, for the consciousness of her first failure
pricked her pride and spurred her to do her best with the calm sort of
determination which conquers fear, fires ambition, and changes defeat
to success. She looked steadily at Rose now, or the flushed, intent face
beside her, and throwing all her soul into the task, let her voice
ring out like a silver clarion, filling the great hall and setting the
hearers' blood a-tingle with the exulting strain.

That settled Phebe's fate as a cantatrice. The applause was genuine and
spontaneous this time and broke out again and again with the generous
desire to atone for former coldness. But she would not return, and the
shadow of the great organ seemed to have swallowed her up, for no eye
could find her, no pleasant clamor win her back.

"Now I can die conte