ted the wondering children.

[Illustration: "'WHO--WHO--WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?' HE WHISPERED
HOARSELY"]

"I will sing for you," she said haughtily, "and you can judge better!"

With a great sweep of her half bare arm, she brushed aside a portiere
and disappeared. A crashing chord rolled out from a piano behind the
curtains and ceased abruptly.

"What does your mother sing?" she demanded, not raising her voice, it
seemed, and yet they heard her as plainly as when they had leaned
against her knee.

"She sings, 'My Heart's Own Heart,'" Miss Honey called back defiantly.

"And it's printed on the song, 'To Madame Edith Holt'!" shrilled
Caroline.

The familiar prelude was played with a firm, elastic touch, the opening
chords struck, and a great, shining voice, masterful, like a golden
trumpet, filled the room. Caroline sat dumb; Miss Honey, instinctively
humming the prelude, got up from her foot-stool and followed the music,
unconscious that she walked. She had been privileged to hear more good
singing in her eight years than most people in twenty-four, had Miss
Honey, and she knew that this was no ordinary occasion. She did not know
she was listening to one of the greatest voices her country had ever
produced--perhaps in time to be known for the head of them all--but her
sensitive little soul swelled in her, and her childish jealousy was
drowned deep in that river of wonderful sound.

Higher and sweeter and higher yet climbed the melody; one last
triumphant leap, and it was over.

"_My heart--my heart--my heart's own heart!_"

The Princess stood before them in the echoes of her glory, her breath
quick, her eyes brilliant.

"Well?" she said, looking straight at Miss Honey, "do I sing as well as
your mother?"

Miss Honey clenched her fists and caught her breath. Her heart was
breaking, but she could not lie.

"You--you"--she motioned blindly to Caroline, and turned away.

"You sing better," Caroline began sullenly, but the lady pointed to Miss
Honey.

"No, you tell me," she insisted remorselessly.

Miss Honey faced her.

"You--you sing better than my m--mother," she gulped, "but I _love_ her
better, and she's nicer than you, and I don't love you at _all_!"

She buried her face in the red velvet throne, and sobbed aloud with
excitement and fatigue. Caroline ran to her: how could she have loved
that cruel woman? She cast an ugly look at the Princess as she went to
comfort Miss Honey, but the Princes