hen he had made such a different entry at the same juncture;
the other concert-room would have gone some fifty times into this. All
at once fell a hush, and then a rising thunder of applause, and some one
requested Stingaree to remove his hat; he did so, and a cold creeping of
the shaven flesh reminded him of his general position and of this
particular peril. But no one took any notice of him or of his head. And
it was not Hilda Bouverie this time; it was a pianiste in violent
magenta and elaborate lace, whose performance also was loud and
embroidered. Followed a beautiful young barytone whom Miss Bouverie had
brought from London in her pocket for the tour. He sang three little
songs very charmingly indeed; but there was no encore. The gods were
burning for their own; perfunctory plaudits died to a dramatic pause.

And then, and then, amid deafening salvos a dazzling vision appeared
upon the platform, came forward with the carriage of a conscious queen,
stood bowing and beaming in the gloss and glitter of fabric and of gem
that were yet less radiant than herself. Stingaree stood inanimate
between stamping feet and clapping hands. No; he would never have
connected this magnificent woman with the simple bush girl in the
unpretentious frocks that he recalled as clearly as her former self. He
had looked for less finery, less physical development, less, indeed, of
the grand operatic _tout-ensemble_. But acting ended with her smile, and
much of the old innocent simplicity came back as the lips parted in
song. And her song had not been spoilt by riches and adulation; her song
had not sacrificed sweetness to artifice; there was even more than the
old magic in her song.

"Is this a dream?
Then waking would be pain!
Oh! do not wake me;
Let me dream again."

It was no new number even then; even Stingaree had often heard it, and
heard great singers go the least degree flat upon the first "dream." He
listened critically. Hilda Bouverie was not one of the delinquents. Her
intonation was as perfect as that of the great violinists, her high
notes had the rarefied quality of the E string finely touched. It was a
flawless, if a purely popular, performance; and the musical heart of one
listener in that crowded room was too full for mere applause. But he
waited with patient curiosity for the encore, waited while courtesy
after courtesy was given in vain. She had to yield; she yielded with a
winning grace. And the fi