ound so tremendous that it seemed as if it
would rend the walls and the ceiling. It was an ancient Provencal song
that she sang, in long-drawn cadences with strange falls and wild
intervals, the natural music of an ancient, gifted people. It was very
short, for she only sang one stanza of it, and in less than a minute it
was finished and she was silent again. But her big dark eyes, still
swollen and bloodshot, were looking out to a distance far beyond the
green trees she saw through the open window.

Margaret, who had listened, repeated the wild melody very softly, and
sounded each note of it without the words, as if she wished to remember
it always; and a nearer sight came back to the elder woman's eyes as
she listened to the true notes that never faltered, and were as pure as
sounding silver, and as smooth as velvet and as rich as gold. It was a
little thing, but one of those little things that only a born great
singer could have done faultlessly at the first attempt; and Madame
Bonanni listened with rare delight. Then she laughed, as happily as if
she had no heartaches in the world.

'Little Miss Donne, little Miss Donne!' she cried, shaking a fat
finger, 'you will turn many heads before long! You shall come to my
cottage in the autumn, when we have the vintage, and there you will
find old Bonanni looking after the work in a ragged straw hat, with no
paint on her cheeks. And in the evening we will sit upon the door-step
together, and you shall tell me how the heads turned round and round,
and I will teach you all the old songs of Provence. Will you come?'

'Indeed, I will,' Margaret answered, smiling. 'I would cross Europe to
see you--you have been so good to me. Do you know? I want you to
forgive me for what I said in the dressing-room about my engagement. I
remember how you looked when I said it, and now I know that you did not
understand. Of course I owe it all to you--but that isn't what you
meant by--"protection"?'

The prima donna's expression changed again, and grew hard and almost
sullen.

'Never mind that,' she said, roughly. 'I wasn't thinking of that. I
didn't notice what you said.'

She turned her back to Margaret, walked to the window and stood there
looking out while she put on her gloves. But Margaret was humble, in
spite of the rudeness.

'I'm sorry,' she said, following a little way. 'I'm very sorry--I----'

Madame Bonanni did not even turn her head to listen. Margaret did not
try to say an