It is very bold of me to ask. I am horribly nervous, but you are
so kind."

Miss Caldecott laughed and shook her head.

"Not in business matters, dear," she said. "I have to keep my wits
about me in business. If you knew the shoals of things I have sent to
me! But I hate to say no. Got the song with you, do you say? Strum it
over, like a dear, and let me hear how it goes. Sing it too, if you
can. I've got a horrid cold."

Hope rose eagerly. She had been prepared for this, and was less nervous
in playing than in speaking. The piano was delightful; she was tingling
to make the most of her opportunity, and played the introductory bars
with a dainty finish which brought Miss Caldecott's eyes upon her with
an appreciatory flash. She listened in silence to the first verse,
nodding her head to and fro, then turned to Philippa with another
beaming smile.

"Nice little pipe, hasn't she? Sweet and simple like herself. I say!
it wouldn't go far in the Albert Hall, would it? Let me try a verse."
She put down her hands on either side, lifted herself from her low
chair, and went over to the piano. "What are the words? Oh, I can see.
Fire away, then, and I'll see what I can make of it.

"Pack clouds away, and welcome day--
With night we'll banish sorrow.

"Funny words, dear! Where did you get hold of them? It's not bad, you
know--not half bad--what I call graceful. Let's try again, and go on to
the next verse."

This time she drew herself up and sang with careful attention. The
full, rich tones of her voice flooded the room, and Hope thrilled with
delight at the sound of her own creation. Never--no, never--had she
imagined that it could be so charming; and the last verse was the
prettiest of all. Surely if Miss Caldecott liked the beginning, she
would be enraptured with the end!

But, alas! at the conclusion of the second verse Miss Caldecott crossed
the room and threw herself on the sofa, with a resounding yawn.

"Thanks awfully, dear. How clever of you! It really is sweet. Doesn't
quite suit my voice, though, does it? And I don't like those
accidentals. They are tricky, and I'm such a careless creature. Where
did you pick up the words? I don't know the author, but you can tell
him from me that he can't write songs. Not at all catchy words. He'll
have to do better than that. Don't sit perched up there any more, dear;
you look so uncomfortable. There'll be some other people coming
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