ot much like city life as I
understand it; but having lived in the country all my life, as I have, I
am accustomed to it and do not mind. It is delightful to have theatres
and the excitement of social duties, as I imagine you have all the time,
and yet I am not sure I should like it. I fancy once in a while I should
sigh for a shady spot in the woods in summer where I could read a book
or hear the birds sing. It is only in winter that I should like to live
in the city."

But the pleasant days of Alice's stay in Boston passed rapidly until
only two were left, when Blanch said to her, "I have invited a few of my
friends here to meet you to-night, and I want you to do me a favor, and
that is, sing for me."

"Oh, please do not ask that," replied Alice hastily. "I do not sing well
enough, and fear that some of your friends might be critics, and that
would quite upset me."

"But you sing in church," assented Blanch, "and that is much harder."

"That is nothing," answered Alice, smiling; "not one in ten of those
country people know one note from another, and that fact makes me
indifferent. Here not only all your people, but all your friends, hear
the finest operatic singers, and poor I would cut a sorry figure in
contrast."

"But you will sing just once to please me, won't you?" pleaded Blanch.

"I will not promise," was the answer; "I will see how many are here and
how my courage holds out."

When that evening came Blanch waited until Alice had become somewhat
acquainted with the little gathering and the reserve had worn away, when
she went to her and putting one arm around her waist, whispered, "Come,
now, dear, just one little song; only one to please me." At first Alice
thought to refuse, but somehow the pride that was in her came to the
rescue, and the feeling that she would show her friend that she was not
a timid country girl gave her the needed courage, and she arose and
stepped across the room to the grand piano that stood in one corner. Her
cheeks were flushed, and a defiant curl was on her lips, and then
without a moment's hesitation she seated herself and sang "The Last Rose
of Summer." She had sung it many, many times before, and every trill and
exquisite quiver of its wondrous pathos was as familiar to her as the
music of the brook where she had played in childhood. I am not certain
but some of that brook's sweet melody came as an inspiration to her, for
now she sang as she never had before, and to an aud