mind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance
over lonely and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of
himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers
closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his
efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual
bow,--but his real gratitude was all for Thelma. For her he had played
his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of
her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent
low over the fair hand she extended to him.

"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely sounds in
your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you
so very much for the pleasure you have given me!"

Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a
sort of contempt.

"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or she would not
be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his
profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of
people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you."
Aloud she asked Sir Philip--

"Does Lady Errington play?"

"A little," he answered. "She sings."

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano,
"Oh, _do_ sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!" and Sir
Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's
face, murmuring, "You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such
delight?"

"But, of course not!" answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these
unnecessary entreaties. "I am always pleased to sing." And she drew off
her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least
affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright
smile, she asked, "What song do you think will be best, Philip?"

"One of those old Norse mountain-songs," he answered.

She played a soft minor prelude--there was not a sound in the room
now--everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious
fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One
moment--and her voice, in all its passionate, glorious fullness, rang
out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart--and the
foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless,
astonished, and bewildered.

A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George
Lorimer stood apart