s was at the throne before her.

"Oh, I am abominable!" she cried. "I am too horrid to live! It wasn't
kind of me, _cherie_, and I love you for standing up for your mother.
There's no one to do as much for me, when _I'm_ down and out--no one!"
Sorrow swept over her flexible face like a veil, and seizing Miss Honey
in her strong, nervous arms, she wept on her shoulder.

Caroline, worn with the strain of the day, wept too, and even the
General, abandoned in the great chair, burst into a tiny warning wail.

Quick as thought the Princess was upon him, and had raised him against
her cheek.

"Hush, hush, don't cry--don't cry, little thing," she whispered, and
sank into one of the high carved chairs with him.

"No, no, I'll hold him," she protested, as Delia entered, her arms out.
"I'm going to sing to him. May I? He's sleepy."

Delia nodded indulgently. "For half an hour," she said, as one allowing
a great privilege, "and then we must go."

"What do you sing to him?" the Princess questioned humbly.

"I generally sing 'Flow Gently Sweet Afton,'" the nurse answered. "Do
you know it?"

"I think so," and the Princess began a sort of glorified humming, like a
great drowsy bee, all resonant and tremulous.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.

Soft the great voice was, soft and widely flowing: to Caroline, who had
retreated to the further end of the music-room, so that Delia should not
see her tears, it seemed as if Delia herself, a wonderful new Delia,
were singing her, a baby again, to sleep. She felt soothed, cradled,
protected by that lapping sea of melody that drifted her off her
moorings, out of the room....

Vaguely she saw Miss Honey, relaxed on the red throne, smile in her
sleep, one arm falling over the broad seat. Was it in her dream that
some one in a blue and white apron--not Delia, for Delia was
singing--leaned back slowly in the long basket-chair and closed her
tired eyes? Who was it that held the General close in her arms, and
smiled as he patted her cheek at the familiar song, and mumbled her
fingers with happy, cooing noises?

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

The General's head was growing heavy, but he smiled confidingly into the
dark eyes above him and stretched himself out in full-fed, drowsy
content. One hand slipped through the lace under his cheek and reste