face.

Then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attention
to the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden change
of countenance.

A very small young lady, hidden away in countless yards of pink silk,
delights them with one of the ballads of the day. Her voice is far the
biggest part of her, and awakens in one's mind a curious craving to
know where it comes from.

Then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful face, plays on the
violin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing,
and is sufficiently ravishing to call forth at intervals the
exclamation, "Good, good!" from Luttrell's neighbor.

Then a very large woman warbles a French _chansonnette_ in the
tiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then----

_Who_ is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity across
the boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully upheld, her
large eyes calm and sweet and steady?

For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises before
him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand upon
the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his
composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn.

An instantaneous hush falls upon the assembly; the very fans drop
silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. The
opening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing.

It is some new, exquisite rendering of Kingsley's exquisite words she
has chosen:

"Oh, that we two were maying!--"

and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is
capable.

She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her
tones. She looks far above them, her serene face--pale, but full of
gentle self-possession--more sweet than any poem. She is singing with
all her heart for her beloved,--for Letitia, and Lovat, and the
children, and John in heaven.

A passionate longing to be near her--to touch her--to speak--to be
answered back again--seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the
minutiae of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft,
gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. Her hands,
lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple black
gown of some clinging, transparent material--barely opened at the
neck--makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is
scarcely less white than the snowy flowers