tandstill. Some
days I feel as if I could sing forever, then the very next day one easy
little song will seem too much. And if I am in a draft for a minute or
get caught in a shower, my throat gets sore and hoarse at once. It
doesn't seem to get any stronger."

"Probably it won't until you do the right thing. I took the liberty of
talking to Doctor Jenkins. He says the trouble is all with your
general health. You'll have to build it up. So--so you must get away
from this office, that takes up your time and strength, and live as
much as possible outdoors and grow strong."

"But I can't do that. I can't afford it and I can't impose on my aunt."

"Could you afford it if you had a good church position?"

"Yes. But I'm not ready for that. I couldn't fill it. No church
would want me, with a voice so uncertain--"

"The Second Presbyterian is looking for a new contralto. I have asked
them to give you a trial. Will you sing for them?"

"When?"

"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."

"But I can't do that. It's too soon. It wouldn't be fair to them,
even if I should sing well at the trial. I--I'm afraid I've been
letting you expect too much--" Her face had grown whiter than usual.

"But you can." Jonathan was very earnest. "You must believe--you must
_believe_ you can. You must make up your mind to sing your very best
next Sunday. If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have
you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first. And you must
get away from this office."

"You mean my work here isn't good enough--that you want to get rid of
me?"

"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped. He looked down at his desk and
nervously ruffled his whiskers. "Oh, not that! I shall--miss you very
much. And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for
you. But I want you to have your career--everything that is best for
you. And"--he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue
in the plea--"won't you try it for--for my sake?"

She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat. And though her
heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the
little man--not so absurd to her just then--part of whose secret she
had seen.

"I will try it," she said. . . .

Of course she told David that evening. (How easily and naturally, now
that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little
evening chats!) He had a moment of grave d