ned color, perhaps, or her
startled eye--he saw at once that she had heard the man's rude speech
and his reply.

He stopped short, grasped at his beard as his manner was, especially
when he was perplexed or embarrassed; then crossed over towards her,
laid his hand on her arm, and spoke in a tone of unusual tenderness.

"_You_ here, my child?"

Lesley thrilled all over with the novel pleasure of what seemed to her
like commendation. But she could not answer suitably.

"Mrs. Romaine brought me," she said.

"Ah! Mrs. Romaine?"--in quite a different tone. "Very kind of Mrs.
Romaine. By the bye, Maurice"--to Mr. Kenyon, who had just appeared upon
the scene, and was looking with curiously anxious eyes at Lesley--"the
music ought to begin now. Is Trent ready? And will Ethel recite
something? That's all right--I suppose Miss Bellot will be here
presently."

And leaving Lesley without another glance, he went to the piano and
opened it. The audience settled itself in its place, and gave a little
sigh of expectation. Mr. Brooke's Sunday afternoon "recitals," from four
to five, always gave great satisfaction.

Oliver sang first, then Ethel recited something; then Mr. Brooke sang,
and then Oliver played--he was a very useful young man in his way--and
then there came a little pause.

"A certain Miss Bellot promised to come and sing, but she has not
appeared," Ethel explained to her friend. "Lesley, you can sing: I know
you can, for I saw a lot of songs in your portfolio the other day. Won't
you give them something?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't!"

"It's not a critical audience," said Oliver, on her other side. "You
might try. The people are growing impatient, and your father will be
disappointed if things do not go well----"

Lesley flushed deeply. A week ago she would have thought--What is it to
me if my father is disappointed? But she could not think so to-night.

"I have no music here. And I cannot sing properly when I play my own
accompaniments."

"Tell me something you know and let me see whether I can play it," said
Oliver.

She paused for a moment, then, with a smile in her eyes, she mentioned a
name which made him laugh and elevate his eyebrows. "Do you know
_that_?" she said.

"Rather! Is it not a trifle hackneyed? Ah, well, not for this audience,
perhaps. Yes, I will play." And then, just as Caspar Brooke, with a
slight gesture of annoyance, turned to explain to the people that a
singer whom he expected had not