herself, but she could not bear to have her
darling black doll called ugly. In her excitement she upset her cup of
tea over the tablecloth. Aunt Isabella looked angry, and Grandmother
Marshall said sharply: "Joyce, leave the table. You grow more awkward
and careless every day."

Little Joyce, on the verge of tears, crept away and went up the
kitchen stairs to Denise to be comforted. But Denise herself had been
crying. She lay on her little bed by the low window, where the glow of
the sunset was coming in; her hollow cheeks were scarlet with fever.

"Oh! I want so much to hear Madame Laurin sing," she sobbed. "I feel
lak I could die easier if I hear her sing just one leetle song. She is
Frenchwoman, too, and she sing all de ole French songs--de ole songs
my mudder sing long 'go. Oh! I so want to hear Madame Laurin sing."

"But you can't, dear Denise," said Little Joyce very softly, stroking
Denise's hot forehead with her cool, slender hand. Little Joyce had
very pretty hands, only nobody had ever noticed them. "You are not
strong enough to go to the concert. I'll sing for you, if you like. Of
course, I can't sing very well, but I'll do my best."

"You sing lak a sweet bird, but you are not Madame Laurin," said
Denise restlessly. "It is de great Madame I want to hear. I haf not
long to live. Oh, I know, Leetle Joyce--I know what de doctor look
lak--and I want to hear Madame Laurin sing 'fore I die. I know it is
impossible--but I long for it so--just one leetle song."

Denise put her thin hands over her face and sobbed again. Little Joyce
went and sat down by the window, looking out into the white birches.
Her heart ached bitterly. Dear Denise was going to die soon--oh, very
soon! Little Joyce, wise and knowing beyond her years, saw that. And
Denise wanted to hear Madame Laurin sing. It seemed a foolish thing to
think of, but Little Joyce thought hard about it; and when she had
finished thinking, she got her little black doll and took it to bed
with her, and there she cried herself to sleep.

At the breakfast table next morning the Marshalls talked about the
concert and the wonderful Madame Laurin. Little Joyce listened in her
usual silence; her crying the night before had not improved her looks
any. Never, thought handsome Grandmother Marshall, had she appeared so
sallow and homely. Really, Grandmother Marshall could not have the
patience to look at her. She decided that she would not take Joyce
driving with her an