They were right. But she had not the courage, or, perhaps, as most women are a little cat-like in this, that they go away once or twice from the subject nearest their heart before they turn and pounce on it, she must speak of other things first. Said she, “But if I was unfortunate in that, I was fortunate in this, that I fell into good hands. These ladies are sisters to me,” and she gave Miss Gale her hand, and kissed the other hand to Fanny, though she could scarcely lift it; “and I have a host who loves music, and overrates my poor ability.” Then, after a pause, “What have you heard me sing?” “Siebel.” “Only Siebel! why, that is a poor little thing.” “So _I_ thought, till I heard you sing it.” “And, after Siebel, you bought my photograph.” “Instantly.” “And wasted pearls on it.” “No, madam. I wasted it on pearls.” “If I were well, I should call that extravagant. But it is permitted to flatter the sick--it is kind. Me you overrate, I fear; but you do well to honor music. Ay, I, who lie here wounded and broken-hearted, do thank God for music. Our bodies are soon crushed, our loves decay or turn to hate, but art is immortal.” She could no longer roll this out in her grand contralto, but she could still raise her eyes with enthusiasm, and her pale face was illuminated. A grand soul shone through her, though she was pale, weak, and prostrate. They admired her in silence. After a while she resumed, and said, “If I live, I must live for my art alone.” Miss Gale saw her approaching a dangerous topic, so she said, hastily, “Don't say _if_ you live, please, because that is arranged. You have been out of danger this twenty-four hours, provided you do not relapse; and I must take care of that.” “My kind friend,” said Ina, “I shall not relapse; only my weakness is pitiable. Sometimes I can scarcely forbear crying, I feel so weak. When shall I be stronger?” “You shall be a little stronger every three days. There are always ups and downs in convalescence.” “When shall I be strong enough to move?” “Let me answer that question,” said Vizard. “When you are strong enough to sing us Siebel's great song.” “There,” said Fanny Dover; “there is a mercenary host for you. He means to have a song out of you. Till then you are his prisoner.” “No, no, she is mine,” said Miss Gale; “and she shan't go till she has sung me 'Hail, Columbia.' None of your Italian trash for me.” Ina smiled, and said it was a fair condition, provided that “Hail, Columbia,” with which composition, unfortunately, she was unacquainted, was not beyond her powers. “I have often sung for money,” said she; “but this time”--here she opened her grand arms and took Rhoda Gale to her bosom--“I shall sing for love.” “Now we have settled that,” said Vizard, “my mind is more at ease, and I will retire.” “One moment,” said Ina, turning to him. Then, in a low and very meaning voice, _“There is something else.”_