aty in her voice, and Frank knew the truth on an instant.

"I cannot have you carrying messages for me."

"Seeing that I offered myself"--she suggested, with a smile.

"--is no reason that I should trespass on your kindness, so I shall
carry my message myself." This quite firmly.

"I will sing again if you stay." She looked at him through her long
lashes without turning her head. "You see," she added, "I have made up
my mind."

"It's a premium on discourtesy," he answered, "but I yield."

Near the place where she stood there was a fallen log, and he seated
himself upon it, placing his hat on the ground as though for a continued
stay, regarding her curiously.

She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet she
showed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to him
the impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went or
stayed.

"Tell me," he said, "before you sing, where have you studied?"

"I?" she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful. "In Paris, in
London, in Rome, in New York." There was bitterness in her tone. "I am a
_gamin_ of the world, monsieur."

"Tell me," he repeated, insistently.

She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, looking
into the sunset.

"Won't you tell me?" he asked again, his tone more intimate than before.

"Ah, why should I?" And then, with a sudden veering: "After all, there
is little to tell. I was born in Paris of poor--but Irish--parents." She
smiled as she spoke. "My mother was a great singer, whose name I will
not call. She married my father; left him and me. I do not remember her.
Since her death my father has been a spent man. We have wandered from
place to place. When he found work I was sent to some convent near by.
The Sisters have taught me. For three months I studied with Barili. I
have sung in the churches. Finally, Mr. McDermott, on the next
plantation, met us in New York, recommended my father for this work, and
we came here."

She turned from him as she ended the telling. "What shall I sing?" she
asked.

"'The Serenade.'"

"Schubert's?"

"There is but one."

"It is difficult without the accompaniments but I will try:

"'All the stars keep watch in heaven
While I sing to thee,
And the night for love was given--
Darling, come to me--
Darling, come to me!'"

She ended, her hands clasped before her, her lithe figure, by God-given
instinct for song, le