turned back, but I wanted particularly to see you about some
business." She caught Hope's eager glance, and shook her head in reply.
"Nothing for you, dear. No more songs just now. I say! you _are_
white. What's the matter? Have you been ill?"

"Not ill exactly. We have had an anxious time lately."

Hope could not bring herself to speak of Barney to Minnie Caldecott, and
her cheeks grew pink even as she spoke, for she knew that she was using
the boy's disappearance as a cloak behind which to hide the real trouble
which was sapping her strength. Miss Caldecott nodded her head,
however, as though she understood all about the matter, and said
cheerfully:

"Still trying to make your fortune! Better give it up, my dear, and
follow my example: I'm going to be married." She threw a deprecatory
glance at the Hermit, as though condoling with him on his own late
arrival on the scene. "Told you I should come to that before long!
Fact is, the public is getting tired of me and running after newer
singers, and I must do something to improve my position, so the day is
fixed for the third week in January; and on the fifteenth of December
Minnie Caldecott gives a grand farewell concert, when all her friends in
the profession will give their services for her benefit."

"How kind of them!" said Hope. "I hope you will be very happy. But are
you really going to retire so soon? Your voice is so fresh still--you
are so young--"

The bride-elect laughed her large, hearty laugh. "How old should you
think I was!" she inquired; and this time she addressed the Hermit in
such a marked manner that he could not choose but reply. He looked
annoyed, however, and the pedantic manner was at its height as he said
shortly, "I am afraid I must confess that I have not thought about the
subject at all."

"Think now!" said Minnie, staring at him with her wide blue eyes. She
was like a big baby, Madge reflected--a huge wax doll--just as smooth
and pink-and-white and chubby--just as vacant and soulless in
expression. "Out with it! Don't be afraid," she cried; and the Hermit,
thus goaded, ventured a leap in the dark:

"I should say somewhere about thirty."

Miss Caldecott turned a horrified face towards her friends.

"Well, _he_ doesn't know how to pay compliments.--Thirty, indeed! I'm
only twenty-nine, and in the profession we always knock off at least
five years. No, I am not going to retire. I know a trick worth two of
that. A