r lately?"

Philippa felt relieved to be able to reply in the negative, and Miss
Caldecott enlarged at great length on the personal deformities, mental
blemishes, and vocal limitations of her rival, even condescending to
imitate her rendering of a favourite song.

"High-flown rubbish, I call it! Something like that song of yours," she
said blandly, turning to Hope. "You might offer it to her. Far more
her style than mine. Don't you say I sent you, though."

"Thank you," said Hope softly. "I think I should hardly like to
venture. I don't know her at all, so it's quite different. You knew
our name at least, and I thought--I hoped--"

Despite herself, Hope's voice broke with a little quiver of
disappointment, for she had counted so much on this woman's help; and if
she refused, what could be expected from a stranger on whom she had no
possible claim for sympathy? Her face looked so drawn and pale that
Miss Caldecott's good-nature could not look at it unmoved.

"What's the matter, dear? Disappointed! Hateful of me, isn't it? But
I couldn't sing that song even to please you. I'll tell you what we
will do, though; you shall write another especially for me.
Mezzo-soprano, you know; I don't mind a G now and then, but don't let me
have them too often. And be sure to give me a catchy refrain--something
the people want to move their feet to at the end of the second verse--
see? Then the words must be domestic. I want a song badly, to sing
down Clapham way and places like that, for charities and subscription
concerts. Let me see--something about children, I think. Nothing
fetches them like children! First verses, major, `Happily homeward the
children go;' and about their little troubles, you know, and their
little fears, little smiles, and little tears. There! that's rhyme. I
believe I could write it myself. Then comes the refrain--a little swing
to it, a little lilt--the same words for the first two verses. Oh, you
know the kind of thing! Something to make the mothers cry, and the
papas rush off to buy the song next morning. Nothing draws so well as
children. And you might change to the minor key at the third verse, and
point a moral: we are all children, life's a journey, and we shall grow
tired, too, and fall asleep at the end of our day. There! Never say I
didn't give you an idea. You write that for me, and we'll make a
fortune out of it."

"Thank you. Oh, how kind you are! I see it exactly.