“Well, what in the way of amusements, Frank?” asked the artist, as arm-in-arm with a city gallant, he strolled along Broadway a few days after his arrival in New York. “What! not heard yet that _Alice_ gives a musical entertainment to-night? My good fellow you ‘argue yourself unknown’ by such unseemly ignorance,” gayly said his companion, the Hon. Francis Dundas. “Indeed, I must confess to ignorance; who is this great singer, Alice—some newly risen star, is she not?” “Yes—but the few who have heard, say a star that bids fair to prove on closer examination of the first magnitude, and that even an artist’s eyes can detect no defect in her matchless beauty.” “And which point of the compass does she hail from?” “Oh! she is a native of our city. Her rare beauty some time since attracted the attention of old H——, the millionaire—he does something toward educating her; she turns out a woman, or girl of uncommon talents, and has determined to become a public singer. I am told her history is a complete romance, wanting nothing of tragedy or comedy to make it irresistibly interesting.” “A singer—a genius—and a beauty! we will hear her by all means!” exclaimed Martin enthusiastically. And they did hear her. It was not a “grand entertainment.” The singer Alice was the sole performer. She had preferred that it should be so, that her merits and powers, whatever they were, might be estimated at their worth. Small and select was the audience before which she appeared; it was composed of people of refined taste, who could fully appreciate all the excellencies of style and manner, and whose approbation a young debutante might rejoice to win. How young she was! how truly and perfectly beautiful! There was a slight flush on her cheek which was else pale as marble, that told how strongly the chords of her brave heart were struck. She sang—oh! the voice whose tones filled the high hall was like that we hear in dreams, when angels come to keep watch over us, chanting through the long hours of the night! During the whole first part of the concert there was intense silence, for there was an intense gratification felt by the audience that was deeper than could be uttered, and the smiles, and tears, and breathless interest evinced, were to the maiden tributes more acceptable than tumultuous applause had been. “She is a wonder!” “a miracle!” “what a voice!” “what a style!” “and then to think she is only seventeen or eighteen!” Such and like exclamations escaped from every heart as “Alice” withdrew at the close of the first part from the saloon. Frank Dundas turned to his companion— “Well, Gray, what do _you_ think of her? Your wits seem wandering.” “I am lost! it is divine! I have never seen or heard her equal. Tell me, what did you say is her name; the face haunts me; I could swear I have seen it before.”