--he'd only feel that he hadn't been used fairly, and
he's used to that; but Jigger wouldn't sleep to-night, and it's
essential that he should. Think of how much happiness and how much pain
you can give, just by trilling a simple little song with your little
voice oh, madame la cantatrice?"

Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away hastily.
"I've been upset and angry and disturbed--and I don't know what," she
said, abruptly. "One of my black moods was on me. They only come once
in a blue moon; but they almost kill me when they do." ... She stopped
and looked at him steadily for a moment, the tears still in her eyes.
"You are very understanding and gentle--and sensible," she added, with
brusque frankness and cordiality. "Yes, I will sing for Rudyard Byng
and for Jigger; and a little too for a very clever diplomatist." She
gave a spasmodic laugh.

"Only half a minute left," he rejoined with gay raillery. "I said you'd
sing to them in five minutes, and you must. This way."

He offered her his arm, she took it, and in cheerful silence he hurried
her to the ball-room.

Before her first song he showed her the window which looked across to
that out of which Jigger gazed with trembling eagerness. The blinds and
curtains were up at these windows, and Jigger could see her as she sang.

Never in all her wonderful career had Al'mah sung so well--with so much
feeling and an artist's genius--not even that night of all when she
made her debut. The misery, the gloom, the bitterness of the past hour
had stirred every fibre of her being, and her voice told with thrilling
power the story of a soul.

Once after an outburst of applause from the brilliant audience, there
came a tiny echo of it from across the courtyard. It was Jigger,
enraptured by a vision of heaven and the sounds of it. Al'mah turned
towards the window with a shining face, and waved a kiss out of the
light and glory where she was, to the sufferer in the darkness. Then,
after a whispered word to the accompanist she began singing Gounod's
memorable song, "There is a Green Hill Far Away." It was not what the
audience expected; it was in strangest contrast to all that had gone
before; it brought a hush like a benediction upon the great chamber.
Her voice seemed to ache with the plaintive depth of the song, and the
soft night filled its soul with melody.

A wonderful and deep solemnity was suddenly diffused upon the assembly
of world-worn people, to mo