ever mind;
they are prepared to like anything. There! APPENDICITIS! I told you so.
Poor Madame Velma! Let us hope it won't get into the local papers. Oh,
goodness! She is going to enlarge on new-fangled diseases. Well, it
gives us a moment's breathing space.... I say, Miss Champion, I was
chaffing this afternoon about sharps and flats. I can play that
accompaniment for you if you like. No? Well, just as you think best.
But remember, it takes a lot of voice to make much effect in this
concert-room, and the place is crowded. Now--the duchess has done. Come
on. Mind the bottom step. Hang it all! How dark it is behind this
curtain!"

Garth gave her his hand, and Jane mounted the steps and passed into
view of the large audience assembled in the Overdene concert-room. Her
tall figure seemed taller than usual as she walked alone across the
rather high platform. She wore a black evening gown of soft material,
with old lace at her bosom and one string of pearls round her neck.
When she appeared, the audience gazed at her and applauded doubtfully.
Velma's name on the programme had raised great expectations; and here
was Miss Champion, who certainly played very nicely, but was not
supposed to be able to sing, volunteering to sing Velma's song. A more
kindly audience would have cheered her to the echo, voicing its
generous appreciation of her effort, and sanguine expectation of her
success. This audience expressed its astonishment, in the dubiousness
of its faint applause.

Jane smiled at them good-naturedly; sat down at the piano, a Bechstein
grand; glanced at the festoons of white roses and the cross of crimson
ramblers; then, without further preliminaries, struck the opening chord
and commenced to sing.

The deep, perfect voice thrilled through the room.

A sudden breathless hush fell upon the audience.

Each syllable penetrated the silence, borne on a tone so tender and so
amazingly sweet, that casual hearts stood still and marvelled at their
own emotion; and those who felt deeply already, responded with a yet
deeper thrill to the magic of that music.

"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over, ev'ry one apart,
My rosary,--my rosary."

Softly, thoughtfully, tenderly, the last two words were breathed into
the silence, holding a world of reminiscence--a large-hearted woman's
faithful remembrance of tender moments in the past.

The listening crowd held its