"I whisper a little sometimes with the soft pedal down," said Di. "But not in public. There is a painful discrepancy between me and my voice. It is several sizes too small for me." "Do whisper a little all the same," said the painter. "John," said Di, "I am afraid you do not observe that I am being pressed to sing by two of your guests. Why don't you, in the language of the _Quiver_, conduct me to the instrument?" The unreasoning, delighted pride with which John had until now listened to the smallest of Di's remarks, whether addressed to himself or others, had entirely left him. "Do sing," he said, without looking at her; and he rose to light the candles on the piano. And Di sang. John sat down by Mary, and actually allowed the painter to turn over. It was a very small voice, low and clear, which, while it disarmed criticism, made one feel tenderly towards the singer. John, with his hand over his eyes, watched Di intently. She seemed to have suddenly receded from him to a great and impassable distance, at the very moment when he had thought they were drawing nearer to each other. He took new note of every line of form and feature. There was a growing tumult in his mind, a glimpse of breakers ahead. The atmosphere of peace and quietude of the familiar room, and the low voice singing in the listening silence, seemed to his newly awakened consciousness to veil some stern underlying reality, the features of which he could not see. Mary Goodwin, who had the music in her which those who possess a lesser degree of it are often able more fluently to express, left John, and, going to the piano, began to turn over Di's music. Presently she set up an old leather manuscript book before Di, who, after a moment's hesitation, began to sing-- "Oh, broken heart of mine, Death lays his lips to thine; His draught of deadly wine He proffereth to thee! But listen! low and near, In thy close-shrouded ear, I whisper. Dost thou hear? 'Arise and work with me.' "The death-weights on thine eyes Shut out God's patient skies. Cast off thy shroud and rise! What dost thou mid the dead? Thine idle hands and cold Once more the plough must hold, Must labour as of old. Come forth, and earn thy bread." The voice ceased. The accompaniment echoed the stern sadness of the last words, and then was suddenly silent. What is it in a voice that so mightily stirs the fibre of emotion in us? It seemed to John that Di had taken his heart into the hollow of her slender hands. "Thank you," said Mary Goodwin, after a pause; and one of the elder ladies felt it was an opportune moment to express her preference for cheerful songs. Di had risen from the piano, and was gathering up her music. Involuntarily John crossed the room, and came and stood beside her. He did not know he had done so till he found himself at her side. Mary Goodwin turned to Miss Fane to say "Good night."