She looked at the doctor, her eyes twinkling, and then she sang a strange old song that I had never heard before. It was sung to a quaint air that might have been by Purcell and that told of what befell the daughters of a king who lived up in the “North countree:” “‘The king lived up in the North Countree “‘Bow down downaday “‘The king lived up in the North Countree “‘The bough that bends to me “‘The king lived up in the North Countree “‘And he had daughters, one, two, three— “‘I’ll prove true to my love, “‘If my love proves true to me.’” It was a melodramatic song and told of the death by drowning of the youngest of the three daughters, and the phraseology was so queer that it might easily have become comic; but the old lady sang it with such simplicity; her voice, in spite of its quavers, was so true and still bore such evidence of the silvery quality that it had once contained, that my three artist friends afterwards acknowledged that the song gave them a choky feeling in the throat. Sibthorp told them that one did not need to be an artist to have choky feelings. At the song’s conclusion Pat Casey turned to the Rev. Mr. Hughson, by whose side he was standing, and said, “She’s a dam good woman—glory be to God.” Cherry had made some sort of lace arrangement for the hair, three cornered and arabesque, and when Mrs. Hartlett had finished singing she crowned her with it. It wasn’t particularly becoming, but when I said so Ethel said I was horrid. Just after the singing I saw Minerva whisper something to James, and the two went off. At the time I supposed that she had gotten tired of standing around among white folks, with nothing to do, and in a measure I had guessed right, but I was not prepared for what followed. The windows of Mrs. Hartlett’s parlour were open; it had been her intention to hold her reception in the house until she saw that it would be impossible with such an out-pouring of neighbours and friends. Suddenly from out the open windows came the sound of melodious voices—negro voices singing one of the most plaintive of the darkey melodies: “Steal Away to Jesus.” Our proposed concert at Egerton had fallen through, owing to various reasons. We had made it all right with Deacon Fotherby by sending him the goodly amount of a collection taken up one evening among the Clover Lodgers.