"Yes; I wanted to do every thing myself, and not owe one jot of my success, if I had any, to even the dearest friend I've got. It was bad and foolish of me, and I was punished by that first dreadful failure. I was so frightened, Rose! My breath was all gone, my eyes so dizzy I could hardly see, and that great crowd of faces seemed so near I dared not look. If it had not been for the clock, I never should have got through; and when I did, not knowing in the least how I'd sung, one look at your distressed face told me that I'd failed." "But I smiled, Phebe,--indeed I did,--as sweetly as I could; for I was sure it was only fright," protested Rose, eagerly. "So you did: but the smile was full of pity, not of pride, as I wanted it to be; and I rushed into a dark place behind the organ, feeling ready to kill myself. How angry and miserable I was! I set my teeth, clenched my hands, and vowed that I would do well next time, or never sing another note. I was quite desperate when my turn came, and felt as if I could do almost any thing; for I remembered that _he_ was there. I'm not sure how it was, but it seemed as if I was all voice; for I let myself go, trying to forget every thing except that two people must _not_ be disappointed, though I died when the song was done." "O Phebe, it was splendid! I nearly cried, I was so proud and glad to see you do yourself justice at last." "And he?" whispered Phebe, with her face half hidden on the arm of the chair. "Said not a word: but I saw his lips tremble and his eyes shine; and I knew he was the happiest creature there, because _I_ was sure he did think you fit to be his wife, and did mean to speak very soon." Phebe made no answer for a moment, seeming to forget the small success in the greater one which followed, and to comfort her sore heart with the knowledge that Rose was right. "_He_ sent the flowers; _he_ came for me, and, on the way home, showed me how wrong I had been to doubt him for an hour. Don't ask me to tell that part, but be sure _I_ was the happiest creature in the world then." And Phebe hid her face again, all wet with tender tears, that fell soft and sudden as a summer shower. Rose let them flow undisturbed, while she silently caressed the bent head; wondering, with a wistful look in her own wet eyes, what this mysterious passion was, which could so move, ennoble, and beautify the beings whom it blessed. An impertinent little clock upon the chimney-piece striking eleven broke the silence, and reminded Phebe that she could not indulge in love-dreams there. She started up, brushed off her tears, and said resolutely,-- "That is enough for to-night. Go happily to bed, and leave the troubles for to-morrow." "But, Phebe, I must know what you said," cried Rose, like a child defrauded of half its bedtime story. "I said 'No.'"