e, holding me on his knee, pinching,
tickling, pulling my hair, and shaking me up and down between whiles. Mr
Hawden favoured us by rendering "The Holy City". Everard Grey sang
several new songs, which was a great treat, as he had a well-trained and
musical baritone voice. He was a veritable carpet knight, and though not
a fop, was exquisitely dressed in full evening costume, and showed his
long pedigreed blood in every line of his clean-shaven face and tall
slight figure. He was quite a champion on the piano, and played aunt
Helen's accompaniments while he made her sing song after song. When she
was weary uncle Jay-Jay said to me, "Now it's your turn, me fine lady.
We've all done something to keep things rolling but you. Can you sing?"

"No,"

"Can this youngster sing, Helen?"

"She sings very nicely to herself sometimes, but I do not know how she
would manage before company. Will you try something, Sybylla?"

Uncle Jay-Jay waited to hear no more, but carrying me to the music-stool,
and depositing me thereon, warned me not to attempt to leave it before
singing something.

To get away to myself, where I was sure no one could bear me, and sing
and sing till I made the echoes ring, was one of the chief joys of my
existence, but I had never made a success in singing to company. Besides
losing all nerve, I had a very queer voice, which every one remarked.
However, tonight I made an effort in my old favourite, "Three Fishers
Went Sailing". The beauty of the full-toned Ronisch piano, and Everard's
clever and sympathetic accompanying, caused me to forget my audience, and
sing as though to myself alone, forgetting that my voice was odd.

When the song ceased Mr Grey wheeled abruptly on the stool and said, "Do
you know that you have one of the most wonderful natural voices I have
heard. Why, there is a fortune in such a voice if it were, trained! Such
chest-notes, such feeling, such rarity of tone!"

"Don't be sarcastic, Mr Grey," I said shortly.

"Upon my word as a man, I mean every word I say," he returned
enthusiastically.

Everard Grey's opinion on artistic matters was considered worth having.
He dabbled in all the arts--writing, music, acting, and sketching, and
went to every good concert and play in Sydney. Though he was clever at
law, it was whispered by some that he would wind up on the stage, as he
had a great leaning that way.

I walked away from the piano treading on air. Would I really make a
singer? I wi