tty anyway," said Rose.

Lucy drew a strand of her hair violently over her shoulder. It almost
seemed as if she meant to tear it out by the roots.

"Lucy!" said her mother.

"Oh, mother, do let me alone!" cried the girl. Then she said, looking
angrily at her tress of hair, then at Rose: "It is not nearly as
pretty as yours. You know it isn't. All men are simply crazy over
hair your color. I hate my hair. I just hate it."

"Lucy!" said her mother again, in the same startled but admonitory
tone.

Lucy made an impatient face at her. She threw back the tress of hair.
"I hate it," said she.

Rose began to feel awkward. She noticed Mrs. Ayres's anxious regard
of her daughter, and she thought with disgust that Lucy Ayres was not
so sweet a girl as she had seemed. However, she felt an odd kind of
sympathy and pity for her. Lucy's pretty face and her white wrapper
seemed alike awry with nervous suffering, which the other girl dimly
understood, although it was the understanding of a normal character
with regard to an abnormal one.

Rose resolved to change the subject. "I did enjoy your singing so
much this morning," she said.

"Thank you," replied Lucy, but a look of alarm instead of pleasure
appeared upon her face, which Rose was astonished to see in the
mother's likewise.

"I feel so sorry for poor Miss Hart, because I cannot think for a
moment that she was guilty of what they accused her of," said Rose,
"that I don't like to say anything about her singing. But I will say
this much: I did enjoy yours."

"Thank you," said Lucy again. Her look of mortal terror deepened.
From being aggressively nervous, she looked on the verge of a
collapse.

Mrs. Ayres rose, went to Lucy's closet, and returned with a bottle of
wine and a glass. "Here," she said, as she poured out the red liquor.
"You had better drink this, dear. You know Dr. Wallace said you must
drink port wine, and you are all tired out with your singing this
morning."

Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly.

"It must be a nervous strain," said Rose, "to stand up there, before
such a crowded audience as there was this morning, and sing."

"Yes, it is," agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice, "and especially
when anybody isn't used to it. Lucy is not at all strong."

"I hope it won't be too much for her," said Rose; "but it is such a
delight to listen to her after--"

"Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart's name!" cried Lucy,
unpleasantly.