"I might sing to him," suggested the Princess, brushing a damp lock from the General's warm forehead and slipping her ringless finger into his curved fist carefully. "Would he like it?" "No, he wouldn't," said Miss Honey bluntly, twisting the ring around her finger. "He only likes two people to sing--Delia and my mother. Was that ruby ring a 'ngagement ring?" Caroline interfered diplomatically, "General would be very much obliged," she explained politely, "except that my Aunt Deedee is a very good singer indeed, and Uncle Joe says General's taste is ruined for just common singing." The Princess stared at her blankly. "Oh, indeed!" she remarked. Then she smiled, again in that whimsical, expressive way. "You don't think I could sing well enough for him--as well as your mother?" Miss Honey laughed carelessly. "My mother is a singer," she said, "a real one. She used to sing in concerts--real ones. In theaters. Real theaters, I mean," as the lady appeared to be still amused. "If you know where the Waldorf Hotel is," Caroline interrupted, "she has sung in that, and it was five dollars to get in. It was to send the poor children to a Fresh Air Fund. It--it's not the same as you would sing--or me," she added politely. The lady arose suddenly and deposited the General, like a doll, with one swift motion, in the basket-chair. Striding across the room she turned, flushed and tall, and confronted the wondering children. [Illustration: "'WHO--WHO--WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?' HE WHISPERED HOARSELY"] "I will sing for you," she said haughtily, "and you can judge better!" With a great sweep of her half bare arm, she brushed aside a portiere and disappeared. A crashing chord rolled out from a piano behind the curtains and ceased abruptly. "What does your mother sing?" she demanded, not raising her voice, it seemed, and yet they heard her as plainly as when they had leaned against her knee. "She sings, 'My Heart's Own Heart,'" Miss Honey called back defiantly. "And it's printed on the song, 'To Madame Edith Holt'!" shrilled Caroline. The familiar prelude was played with a firm, elastic touch, the opening chords struck, and a great, shining voice, masterful, like a golden trumpet, filled the room. Caroline sat dumb; Miss Honey, instinctively humming the prelude, got up from her foot-stool and followed the music, unconscious that she walked. She had been privileged to hear more good singing in her eight years than most people in twenty-four, had Miss Honey, and she knew that this was no ordinary occasion. She did not know she was listening to one of the greatest voices her country had ever produced--perhaps in time to be known for the head of them all--but her sensitive little soul swelled in her, and her childish jealousy was drowned deep in that river of wonderful sound. Higher and sweeter and higher yet climbed the melody; one last triumphant leap, and it was over. "_My heart--my heart--my heart's own heart!_"