run around in the spring forests and spend all the time you can--" her voice faltered "--loving--" The absurdity of the thing never struck them. Most of them couldn't have endured a forest ten minutes. But she had them completely under her spell and it suddenly seemed the most fascinating thing in this world to be young and "--run around in a spring forest--loving--" Her melody began. It matched the dainty spirit of the words and I think if Maitre Guedron, in that heaven where all music makers, good men or bad, should go, could have heard her, he would have bowed his admiration just to hear the tender graceful spirit that her softly muted whistle gave his quaint old song. It was a spirit never lagging, that tripped ahead of the faint strum of the lute strings. The plaudits were coming whole-heartedly now. Felicia adored them for liking her--she leaned forward to catch what a man in the side box was saying. Bolder than the rest, he coughed and let his desire overcome his temerity as he cried out, "Do you know--er--'Ever of thee I am fondly dreaming'?" Felice came quite close to the footlights and peered at him, "Is it like this?" she hummed it over softly-- "That's the ticket," he nodded; "do you know the words?" She shrugged. "I just know it's about a person--who was thinking about some one he used to see," she translated dreamily, "and he thinks he can hear her voice and that cheers him up vairee much when he's feeling low spirited and so it's like this--" She whistled it. After that they just shouted at her, as eager as children. She never failed one of them--save once, when a gasping person demanded "After the Ball." That _did_ puzzle her. "The ball," she echoed regretfully, "I think I don't know about it-- what sort of a ball, was it, M'sieur--a little tennis ball?" But the puffy old lady who asked for "White Wings" was rewarded with the gentlest smile-- "It is stupid of me, I think I never heard the words except those two lines 'White wings they never grow weary--I'll think of my dearie--'" and she finished the "Fly away home," with a charming gesture of her little hands and a triumphant warbling of the tune. Can you wonder that they loved this amazing person who tugged their hearts this way and that with ail the dear old songs that those they'd loved best had once sung to them? Janet's crooning Scotch songs, Molly's wistful Irish ballads, Margot's naughty French and Marthy's sentimental loves, Grandy's English favorites too, it seemed as though she could never give them enough of them--ten minutes! They'd have kept her an hour if they could! She talked, she hummed, she played her lute--but best of all she whistled for them because they liked her-- little Mademoiselle Folly! Last of all, she stood very quietly and looked at them while they were still laughing over something she'd picked up from Zeb, a ridiculous scrap of New England, "Pretend I'm Eunice making the gol-_dern_est huckleberry pie and that I'm singing,