hunting for somebody I came here. Won't you please
let me stay awhile? I can't go to sleep."

"But you will catch cold."

"No, the room is warm, and I have my slippers. Oh! what a pretty
dress! And your arms and neck are like snow, whiter even than my
mamma's. Please do sing something for me. Your voice is sweeter than
my musical box, and then I am going away to-morrow."

She had curled herself like a pet kitten on the rug, and looking down
at her soft dusky eyes, and rosy cheeks, Regina sighed.

"I am so tired, dear. I have no voice left."

"If you could sing before all the people at the Cantata, you might
just one song for little me."

"Well, pet, I know I ought not to be selfish, and I will try. Come,
kiss me. My mother is so far away, and I have nobody to love me. Hug
me tight."

There was a door leading from Mr. Palma's sleeping-room, to the
curtained alcove behind the writing desk, and having quietly entered
by that passage soon after Regina came home, the master of the house
sat on a lounge veiled by damask and lace curtains, and holding the
drapery slightly aside, watched what passed in the library.

He was rising to declare his presence, when Llora came in, and
somewhat vexed at the _contretemps_ he awaited the result.

As Regina knelt on the rug and opened her arms, the pretty child
sprang into them, kissed her cheeks, and assured her repeatedly that
she loved her very dearly, that she was the loveliest girl she ever
saw, especially in that gauze dress. Particularly fond of children,
Regina toyed with, and caressed her for some minutes, then rose, and
said:

"Now I will sing you a little song to put you to sleep. Sit here by
the hearth, but be sure not to nod and fall into the fire."

She opened the organ, and although partly beyond the range of Mr.
Palma's vision, he heard every syllable of the sweet mellow English
words of Kuecken's "Schlummerlied," with its soothing refrain:

"Oh, hush thee now, in slumber mild,
While watch I keep, oh sleep, my child."

She sang it with strange pathos, thinking of her own far distant
mother, whom fate had denied the privilege of chanting lullabies over
her lonely blue-eyed child.

Ending, she came back to the hearth, and Llora clasped her tiny
hands, and chirped:

"Oh, so sweet! When you get to heaven, don't you reckon you will sit
in the choir? Once more, oh! do, please."

"What a hungry little beggar you are! Come, sit in my la