"Wake up, Grace," playfully admonished her mother, her eyes chancing to rest on her daughter's rapt face. "If my ears do not deceive me, I think I heard the doorbell. Perhaps it is the expressman." "I hope it is." Hastily dropping her embroidery to the rustic bench on which she was seated, Grace rose and set off in a hurry toward the not-far-distant house. It was several minutes before she returned, her radiant face registered the news that the long-looked-for express package had materialized. "At last!" was her jubilant cry when half way across the lawn. "No more work for me until after luncheon. Come up to the house, both of you. The grand try-on is about to begin. We'll just have time for it before luncheon. Kindly go to the living-room and obtain front seats for the performance." Having delivered this merry injunction, Grace turned and went back to the house. Laying aside their work in obedience to the prospective bride's command, Mrs. Harlowe and Nora proceeded in leisurely fashion to the house, there to await Grace's pleasure. "Go on into the living-room, Nora," said Mrs. Harlowe as they stepped into the hall. "I must see Bridget about luncheon. I'll return directly." Left to herself, Nora went over to the piano. Her fingers wandering lightly over the keys, almost unconsciously she dropped into the plaintive prelude of Tosti's "Good-bye." Why that particularly pathetic farewell to summer and love should have occurred to her at such a time she did not know. Whether it had been superinduced by her rooted superstition against Grace's determination to try on her wedding gown beforehand, or whether her emotional temperament had sensed the stirring of far-off things, Nora could not explain. Very softly she sang the mournful words of the first verse. She was about to go on with the second when, Mrs. Harlowe appearing in the living-room, Nora swung about on the piano stool. "Finish your song, Nora," begged Mrs. Harlowe. "I am very fond of the 'Good-bye.' It is distinctly melancholy, but beautiful. To me, all Tosti's songs are wonderful. The 'Venetian Song' and the 'Serenata' are both exquisite. It seems a pity that the more modern composers have given us so little that is really worth while." "I know it. Still we have Chaminade and Nevin and De Bussy. Some of De Bussy's tone poems are marvels. I love '_La Lettre_' and '_La Muette_.'" "I don't think I have ever heard either of them," returned Mrs. Harlowe. "I know very little of the modern music of the French school."