ma donna; but they do their anxious best, because
you ask them. I cannot see that they require an object lesson."

"Jane," said the duchess, "for the third time this afternoon I must
request you not to argue."

"Miss Champion," said Garth Dalmain, "if I were your grandmamma, I
should send you to bed."

"What is to be done?" reiterated the duchess. "She was to sing THE
ROSARY. I had set my heart on it. The whole decoration of the room is
planned to suit that song--festoons of white roses; and a great
red-cross at the back of the platform, made entirely of crimson
ramblers. Jane!"

"Yes, aunt."

"Oh, don't say 'Yes, aunt,' in that senseless way! Can't you make some
suggestion?"

"Drat the woman!" exclaimed Tommy, suddenly.

"Hark to that sweet bird!" cried the duchess, her good humour fully
restored. "Give him a strawberry, somebody. Now, Jane, what do you
suggest?"

Jane Champion was seated with her broad back half turned to her aunt,
one knee crossed over the other, her large, capable hands clasped round
it. She loosed her hands, turned slowly round, and looked into the keen
eyes peering at her from under the mushroom hat. As she read the
half-resentful, half-appealing demand in them, a slow smile dawned in
her own. She waited a moment to make sure of the duchess's meaning,
then said quietly: "I will sing THE ROSARY for you, in Velma's place,
to-night, if you really wish it, aunt."

Had the gathering under the tree been a party of "mere people," it
would have gasped. Had it been a "freak party," it would have been
loud-voiced in its expressions of surprise. Being a "best party," it
gave no outward sign; but a sense of blank astonishment, purely mental,
was in the air. The duchess herself was the only person present who had
heard Jane Champion sing.

"Have you the song?" asked her Grace of Meldrum, rising, and picking up
her telegram and empty basket.

"I have," said Jane. "I spent a few hours with Madame Blanche when I
was in town last month; and she, who so rarely admires these modern
songs, was immensely taken with it. She sang it, and allowed me to
accompany her. We spent nearly an hour over it. I obtained a copy
afterwards."

"Good," said the duchess. "Then I count on you. Now I must send a
sympathetic telegram to that poor dear Velma, who will be fretting at
having to fail us. So 'au revoir,' good people. Remember, we dine
punctually at eight o'clock. Music is supposed to begin at nine.
Ronnie, be