d cry out in hope, her song
had sounded like a solemn paean of victorious achievement. Critics had
written of her power and brilliancy, of her splendid ease of execution.

And then had come the making of love. He had played again for her, and
she had put her soul in the songs, for him to revel in, for her to cry
out the beating of her heart. It seemed to have come with the swiftness
of a summer storm, and they had married, with just a few friends present
to witness the ceremony and rejoice in their happiness.

Aunt Lucinda had written that a woman, who would go abroad and espouse
a Papist and a fiddler, was utterly beyond the pale. Let her never show
her face in Providence again!

But what did it matter! Happiness lay in the hollow of their hands, rosy
and bright, full of wondrous promise. Yet she had written to Aunt
Lucinda, dutifully, expressing hope that at some later time she might be
looked upon with greater indulgence. And there had been more beautiful
songs, and Paul had played, and their souls had vibrated together.
Finally, a man from New York had engaged them to come over to America
and give a series of concerts. When they started away, she thought she
was getting a bad cold, for her voice was beginning to get a little
husky. Paul asserted that the trip at sea and the long rest would
certainly make everything all right. But in New York she had been
compelled to call on a doctor, who was an exceedingly busy man, with
hosts of patients, who sprayed her throat and gave her medicine to take
and charged very high fees, and--and the voice had kept on growing
huskier and--and it was no use trying to sing, and--and the engagement
had been broken. And Paul had been so good and swore she would be better
by and by, and he had played in concerts, without her, and everything
went on very well, except her voice. Then, one day, she had told a most
marvelous secret to Paul, and they had rejoiced together and been very
happy. Then the war had come like a bolt from the blue, and Paul had
taken the very first boat with hundreds of other reservists. She would
follow him to France after the baby was born, and there she would wait
for him in the dear old house of his parents, who were country people,
cultivating a farm and oh! so proud of their wonderful son. They had
been ever so good and kind to her. She had written to them several
times, but no answer had ever come and then some one told her that the
small village in which the