"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people," resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing." As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown, and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna. She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong, and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange metallic ring--a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang, her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them. "Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye. "It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her fortune if it were trained." "Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises often an hour a day. I suppose"--with a little sniff--"your voice has been what you call 'trained'?" "Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from Dominga's." "But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the piano"--pulling her sister by the arm--"Verona will take your place." "Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing." "I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she approached the piano, "but they want to hear me." "Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music. A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart, and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos" was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie." Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."