ience that listened
entranced. When the last sweet note had passed her red lips she arose
quickly and returned to her seat; and then, had she not been so modest
that she dared not look at any one, she would have seen two little tears
steal out of Mrs. Nason's eyes, to be quickly brushed away with a
priceless bit of lace. Sweet Alice, the motherless little country girl,
had from that moment entered the heart of Mrs. Nason and won a regard
she hardly realized then; in fact, not at all until long afterward. When
the applause had subsided it was Frank that next pleaded.

"Won't you sing one for me now, Miss Page?" he asked. "I bought the song
I wanted to-day," and going to the piano he unrolled and spread upon the
music rack--"Ben Bolt"!

"But I only consented to sing once for Blanch," Alice replied, "and
there are others here who I am sure can do much better."

"Come, please," he said coaxingly, "just this one for me." And then once
more Alice touched the keys.

Back to a simply furnished parlor in Sandgate, with its lamp on the
piano and open fire burning brightly as it had one year ago, went two of
that company in thought, and maybe others there, whose youth had been
among country scenes, were carried back to them by the singer's voice,
and saw a by-way schoolhouse "and a shaded nook by a running brook," in
fancy; or perhaps a little white stone in some grass-grown corner,
where, "obscure and alone," lay a boyhood's sweetheart! For all the
pathos of our lost youth trilled in the voice of Alice Page as she sang
that old, old song of the long ago. And not one in that little audience
but was enthralled by the winsome witchery of her voice, and for the
moment was young again in thought and feeling. As for Mrs. Nason, when
the guests had departed she turned to Alice, and taking her face in her
hands exclaimed, "I want to kiss the lips that have brought tears to my
eyes to-night."

Sweet Alice had won her crown.

The last evening of her visit she decided to spend with her brother, and
when she came to bid adieu to her hostess, that much dreaded haughty
mother had resolved herself into a charming old lady, who said: "Now I
can see why my daughter went into raptures over some one who I hope will
visit us again and stay much longer." It was a graceful tribute, and one
that touched the motherless girl as few words could.

"It is odd, Bertie," she said to her brother that evening, when they
were alone together, "how differe