ows had come in battalions. Mamselle had really turned her silver
notes into silver coins for the sake of "Home, Sweet Home."

This love of home it was which united Narda and myself. She told me all
about the house at home, about her brother, Carlos, and his pictures,
and _maman_, who made point lace, and Olla Podrida, and little Nita, who
was _douce et belle_. And I, in my turn, told her of the thatched
homestead near the Broads, of the bay and mulberry trees, of Aunt
Ducie's sweet kind face, and Uncle Gervase's early silvered hair.

And she called me "little sister," and promised to spend her next
vacation where the heron fishes and the robin pipes in fair and fresh
East Anglia.

But one May morning, when the lilacs in our playground were full of
sweet-scented, purple plumes, a bolt fell from the blue. A letter came
to Narda telling her of her mother's failing health, her father's
apathy, her brother's despair.

"It is enough," said Mamselle, "I see my duty! An impresario once told
me that my destiny was to sing in public. I will do it for 'Home, Sweet
Home,' I will be La Narda the singer, instead of Miss Melford's
Mamselle. God who helps the blind bird build its nest will help me to
save mine."

II.

There had been the first fall of the snow, and "ye Antiente Citie"
looked like some town in dreamland, or in fairyland, as Miss Melford's
boarders (myself amongst the number) went through its streets and wynds
to the ballad concert (in aid of Crumblebolme's Charity), at which
Mamselle, then La Narda, the _cantatrice_, was announced to sing. We
were naturally much excited; it seemed, as Ivy Davis remarked, almost as
though we were all going to sing in public.

We had front seats, quite near the tapestried platform from whence we
took note of the audience.

"Look, look!" whispered Milly Reed eagerly. "The Countess of Jesmond,
and the house-party at Coss have come to hear _our_ Mamselle. That dark,
handsome man next the countess is Count Mirloff, the Russian poet. Just
think I----"

What more Milly would have said I really cannot say, for just then there
was a soft clapping of hands, and La Narda came down the crimson steps
of the Justice Room, and advanced to the footlights.

"She's like a fairy queen! She's just too lovely!" said the
irrepressible Ivy. And though Miss Melford shook her head, I am sure she
also was of the same opinion, and was proud of my dear brown
nightingale.

The _petite_ figure was ro