The Princess stood before them in the echoes of her glory, her breath quick, her eyes brilliant. "Well?" she said, looking straight at Miss Honey, "do I sing as well as your mother?" Miss Honey clenched her fists and caught her breath. Her heart was breaking, but she could not lie. "You--you"--she motioned blindly to Caroline, and turned away. "You sing better," Caroline began sullenly, but the lady pointed to Miss Honey. "No, you tell me," she insisted remorselessly. Miss Honey faced her. "You--you sing better than my m--mother," she gulped, "but I _love_ her better, and she's nicer than you, and I don't love you at _all_!" She buried her face in the red velvet throne, and sobbed aloud with excitement and fatigue. Caroline ran to her: how could she have loved that cruel woman? She cast an ugly look at the Princess as she went to comfort Miss Honey, but the Princess was at the throne before her. "Oh, I am abominable!" she cried. "I am too horrid to live! It wasn't kind of me, _cherie_, and I love you for standing up for your mother. There's no one to do as much for me, when _I'm_ down and out--no one!" Sorrow swept over her flexible face like a veil, and seizing Miss Honey in her strong, nervous arms, she wept on her shoulder. Caroline, worn with the strain of the day, wept too, and even the General, abandoned in the great chair, burst into a tiny warning wail. Quick as thought the Princess was upon him, and had raised him against her cheek. "Hush, hush, don't cry--don't cry, little thing," she whispered, and sank into one of the high carved chairs with him. "No, no, I'll hold him," she protested, as Delia entered, her arms out. "I'm going to sing to him. May I? He's sleepy." Delia nodded indulgently. "For half an hour," she said, as one allowing a great privilege, "and then we must go." "What do you sing to him?" the Princess questioned humbly. "I generally sing 'Flow Gently Sweet Afton,'" the nurse answered. "Do you know it?" "I think so," and the Princess began a sort of glorified humming, like a great drowsy bee, all resonant and tremulous. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise. Soft the great voice was, soft and widely flowing: to Caroline, who had retreated to the further end of the music-room, so that Delia should not see her tears, it seemed as if Delia herself, a wonderful new Delia, were singing her, a baby again, to sleep. She felt soothed, cradled, protected by that lapping sea of melody that drifted her off her moorings, out of the room....