“This is really a contralto song,” she explained, settling herself on the music-stool. “I have only heard one woman sing it to perfection, and that is Madame Clara Butt. However, I’ll do my best.” And then, striking the preliminary chords, so melodious and deep, she began. With half-closed eyes Mrs. Neville Williams listened. The plaintive sweetness of the melody pleased her, as did the particularly rich _timbre_ of Celia’s voice. What a splendid thing it was to be able to sing so perfectly, she thought! Then, when the second verse was reached, she found herself realizing the tenor of the words-- “Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day, Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see-- Thou who changest not, abide with me.” Here was more philosophy--or what she chose to term philosophy. She tried to listen to the melody only, ignoring the words; but presently the music increased its _tempo_, gaining in intensity; and Celia’s enunciation was so clear that even against her will the words impressed themselves upon her consciousness-- “I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless, Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death’s sting, where, Grave, thy victory? I triumph still if Thou abide with me.” Then, so softly that she almost held her breath to listen, came the last verse-- “Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies. Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee-- In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!” There was silence while Celia put the music away; and then Mrs. Neville Williams spoke. “That is a fine song, and you sing it well,” she remarked, feeling that she was expected to say something. “But it seemed, somehow, to mock me. I am out of sympathy with the words. Won’t you sing something catchy and bright? I want cheering up, for I feel almost as heavy as lead.” Celia glanced at her in pity; but without a word, sat down at the piano again, and playing a short prelude, dashed off into a gay little drinking song she had learnt in Paris. This was more to Ninette’s taste, and her eyes brightened visibly as she rapped a tattoo on the chair in time to the vigorous refrain. She had been of a frivolous disposition all her life; she considered serious people and serious things a “bore;” her motto had ever been “_vive la bagatelle_:” it was surely too late to change now. “Come and see me again,” she said, when Celia prepared to take her leave. “I know you don’t mind my looking like a scare-crow. You won’t tell any of my friends of my wretched appearance, though, will you?” Celia promised faithfully not to divulge, and then, as she fastened the last button of her glove, she said wistfully-- “Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, Mrs. Williams?”