So much as that! So much older than any of us! I could hardly believe it. "I should not have taken you for more than seventeen, Miss Carey." "At seventeen I went out to earn my own living," she said, in a sad tone, but with a candour that I liked. "That is eight years ago." Helen's music ceased with a crash. Miss Deveen came up to Janet Carey. "My dear, I hear you can sing: your aunt tells me so. Will you sing a song, to please me?" She was like a startled fawn: looking here, looking there, and turning white and red. But she rose at once. "I will sing if you wish it, madam. But my singing is only plain singing: just a few old songs. I have never learnt to sing." "The old songs are the best," said Miss Deveen. "Can you sing that sweet song of all songs--'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind'?" She went to the piano, struck the chords quietly, without any flourish or prelude, and began the first note. Oh the soft, sweet, musical voice that broke upon us! Not a powerful voice, that astounds the nerves like an electric machine; but one of that intense, thrilling, plaintive harmony which brings a mist to the eye and a throb to the heart. Tod backed against the wall to look at her; Bill, who had taken up the cat, let it drop through his knees. You might have heard a pin drop when the last words died away: "As friends remembering not." Miss Deveen broke the silence: praising her and telling her to go on again. The girl did not seem to have the least notion of refusing: she appeared to have lived under submission. I think Miss Deveen would have liked her to go on for ever. "The wonder to me is that you can remember the accompaniment to so many songs without your notes," cried Helen Whitney. "I do not know my notes. I cannot play." "Not know your notes!" "I never learnt them. I never learnt music. I just play some few chords by ear that will harmonize with the songs. That is why my singing is so poor, so different from other people's. Where I have been living they say it is not worth listening to." She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. I had heard of self-depreciation: this was an instance of it. Janet Carey was one of the humble ones. The next day was Good Friday. We went to church under lowering clouds, and came home again to luncheon. Cattledon's face was all vinegar when we sat down to it. "There's that woman downstairs again!--that Ness!" she exclaimed with acrimony. "Making herself at home with the servants!" "I'm glad to hear it," smiled Miss Deveen. "She'll get some dinner, poor thing." Cattledon sniffed. "It's not a month since she was here before." "And I'm sure if she came every week she'd be welcome to a meal," spoke Miss Deveen. "Ah now, young ladies," she went on in a joking tone, "if you wanted your fortunes told, Mrs. Ness is the one to do it." "Does she tell truth?" asked Helen eagerly.