“You’re really a terrible young woman!” was Miss Page’s reply. “Go and sing me something. It’s the only way to stop you from proving me a monster of duplicity.” “No, no,” urged Sylvia, eagerly. “You only speak to people as they can understand. But the wonderful thing is, that you know by instinct exactly what they _will_ understand, and exactly how to say it.” “Go and sing,” repeated Anne. Sylvia went laughing to the piano. “I feel awfully happy. I must think of something that suits.” She considered a moment, and then broke into a gay little love-song, with a charming refrain. Anne listened, and as she listened, her determination grew. Sylvia was right. She must go. Her voice was worth cultivating, even at the price of parental displeasure. “Thank you dear,” she said as the clear, ringing notes ceased. “I feel as though a nightingale with brains had been kind enough to fly into my room.” “What else would you like?” Sylvia turned her head as she sat at the piano, playing rippling notes with her left hand. The cloud had left her face, and her parted red lips were very sweet. Anne hesitated a moment. “You read music easily, don’t you? I wonder whether you could sing me a little French song?” She got up, and opening a cupboard in the wall, began to turn over some papers. “Here it is,” she said at last. Sylvia left her place, and knelt beside her friends chair, taking the music from her hand. There were some words upon the cover, but they were in French, and in a difficult handwriting. Anne opened the page rather quickly. “You see it’s quite short and quite simple,” she observed. “Let me read the words first, and you must correct my pronunciation.” She began to say the lines a little falteringly, but her quick ear soon found their lilt, and she read them well. “How pretty! They’re quite easy words. I can understand them,” she said, going to the piano again. “Who wrote them?” Anne did not answer, and Sylvia, engrossed in trying the accompaniment, forgot her question. “I see how it goes!” she exclaimed, playing the first bars. Involuntarily, as she began the first bar, Miss Page put out a quick hand as though to stop her, but the girl sang on unconsciously, and the hand dropped at her side. “It’s lovely!” Sylvia cried, playing the last notes softly over again. “Thank you, dear,” said Anne, gently. She had crossed the room, and was trying on her garden hat. With one hand she gathered up the folds of her long gown. “The sun is off the roses now, and I’m going to give you some to take home to your mother. Come out and help me pick them.” V Dr. Dakin’s house stood in the village street. It was a plain Georgian dwelling of a type common to every English country town; a type which admirably combines comfort with a certain homely dignity.