wing
desire to laugh; "nobody minds him: you know we all suffer in turn.
Something tells me it will be my turn next, and then you will indeed
see a noble example of fortitude under affliction."

There is no time for more; the door opens and the men come in, more
speedily to-night than is their wont, no doubt driven thereto by the
amiability of Mr. Amherst.

Maud suppresses the tell-tale handkerchief, and puts on such a sweet
smile as utterly precludes the idea of chagrin. The men, with the usual
amount of bungling, fall into their places, and Cecil seizes the
opportunity to say to Marcia, in a low tone:

"You say Miss Massereene sings. Ask her to give us something now. It is
so slow doing nothing all the evening, and I feel Mr. Amherst is bent
on mischief. Besides, it is hard on you, expecting you to play all the
night through."

"I will ask her if you wish it," Marcia says, indifferently, "but
remember, you need not look for a musical treat. I detest bad singing
myself."

"Oh, anything, anything," says Cecil, languidly sinking back into her
chair.

Thus instigated, Marcia does ask Molly to sing.

"If you will care to hear me," Molly answers, coldly rather than
diffidently, and rising, goes to the piano.

"Perhaps there may be something of mine here that you may know," Marcia
says, superciliously, pointing to the stand; but Molly, declaring that
she can manage without music, sits down and plays the opening chords of
Gounod's "Berceuse."

A moment later, and her glorious voice, rarely soft, and sweet as a
child's, yet powerful withal, rings through the room, swells, faints,
every note a separate delight, falling like rounded pearls from her
lips.

A silence--truest praise of all--follows. One by one the talkers cease
their chatter; the last word remains a last word; they forget the
thought of a moment before.

A dead calm reigns, while Molly sings on, until the final note drops
from her with lingering tenderness.

Even then they seem in no hurry to thank her; almost half a minute
elapses before any one congratulates her on the exquisite gift that has
been given her.

"You have been days in the house, and never until now have let us hear
you," Philip says, leaning on the top of the piano; he is an enthusiast
where music is concerned. "How selfish! how unkind! I could hardly have
believed it of you."

"Was I ever asked before?" Molly says, raising her eyes to his, while
her fingers still run lightly ov