of this
person, something in her yellow hair and white arms, something in the
very air of the room, heavy with perfumes, that seemed to hurt and
confuse her.

"I have never heard a tenor of more promise, never in my life; and
consider how much that implies, ma'm'selle! You probably know who I am?"

"I have not that pleasure."

"_Bien_, I will tell you. I am Kernadi."

Miss Elisabetha bowed, and inhaled salts from her smelling-bottle, her
little finger elegantly separated from the others.

"You do not mean to say that you have never heard of Kernadi--Cecile
Kernadi?" said the diva, sitting fairly erect now in her astonishment.

"Never," replied the maiden, not without a proud satisfaction in the
plain truth of her statement.

"Where have you lived, ma'm'selle?"

"Here, Mistress Kernadi."

The singer gazed at the figure before her in its ancient dress, and
gradually a smile broke over her beautiful face.

"Ma'm'selle," she said, dismissing herself and her fame with a wave of
her white hand, "you have a treasure in Doro, a voice rare in a
century; and, in the name of the world, I ask you for him."

Miss Elisabetha sat speechless; she was never quick with words, and now
she was struck dumb.

"I will take him with me when I go in a few days," pursued Kernadi; "and
I promise you he shall have the very best instructors. His method now is
bad--insufferably bad. The poor boy has had, of course, no
opportunities; but he is still young, and can unlearn as well as learn.
Give him to me. I will relieve you of all expenses, so sure do I feel
that he will do me credit in the end. I will even pass my word that he
shall appear with me upon either the London or the Vienna stage before
two years are out."

Miss Elisabetha had found her words at last.

"Madame," she said, "do you wish to make an opera-singer of the son of
Petrus Oesterand?"

"I wish to make an opera-singer of this pretty Doro; and, if this good
Petrus is his father, he will, no doubt, give his consent."

"Woman, he is dead."

"So much the better; he will not interfere with our plans, then,"
replied the diva, gayly.

Miss Elisabetha rose; her tall form shook perceptibly.

"I have the honor to bid you good day," she said, courtesying formally.

The woman on the sofa sprang to her feet.

"You are offended?" she asked; "and why?"

"That you, a person of no name, of no antecedents, a public singer,
should presume to ask for my boy, an Oesterand--sho