It was a woman’s voice, singing a popular air in a manner so finished and correct that the method of it startled him with surprise and appreciation, even while the voice itself repelled him. He listened intently to every note. What was the matter with this voice? It was that of a thoroughly trained and practiced singer, and yet it seemed as if, in some way, it had been hurt. The low notes were hard and husky, the high notes were thin and weak. All of this might be accounted for by some disastrous illness or throat trouble, but even while he made this allowance, there was something in the quality, or character, or individuality of the voice, itself, even when singing the middle notes, which caused no strain, that stung the man who listened with a sharp pang of disappointment--a certain quality of hardness, even commonness, which was the direct contradiction of that fair and sensitive young face. The selection ended, and Randall, drawing a deep breath, roused himself and looked around upon the crowd which had gathered. They were a motley throng, composed of children, nurses, tramps, policemen, and aimless idlers of various classes. When Randall remembered the girl’s face, his heart resented them all violently; when he thought of her voice, the tones of which still lingered in his ear, he did not care! But the voice was beginning again, and again he turned and listened. This time it was Schubert’s serenade that she sang, and her technique seemed to him absolutely perfect. Her voice, however, was colder, poorer, more expressionless than before, and he rose as it ended, with an impatient desire to get away. He could have stood any fault of method, had the voice itself been beautiful and sympathetic, but the voice distinctly antagonized him. Before he had moved from his place, however, he saw the woman getting out of the cart with a little basket in her hand, and he remembered that he was supposed to pay for the feast of which he had just partaken. He sat down again, and waited for her to come to him. As she drew nearer, and he heard the small coins clinking lightly in the basket, a feeling of what was almost disgust took possession of him. He saw looks of bold curiosity turned upon her from every side. He even heard certain comments, which, when he thought of the face upturned to the sky that Sunday morning, made him hot with indignation. When he recalled the voice, however, he was able to control himself. As the singer approached him, he saw that her eyes, of which he sought eagerly to catch a glimpse, were uniformly cast down, so that even when the light fell so as to enable him to penetrate the shadows of the mask, he saw only a pair of lowered lids.