IN a little _pension_ on the rue Neuve des Petits Champs, Rose Temple had been working patiently at her music for six months and more, studying under one of the great Italian teachers, a man who had trained more than one prima donna and was, therefore, chary of his encouragement. The enthusiasm which she had brought to her task having been gradually dispelled by sharp disappointments, she had struggled on, determined to succeed at last. The first test of her voice before the maestro and his French critics had been a failure, a failure so complete that she came home to weep her heart out on the faithful shoulder of the elderly cousin who was her chaperon and comforter. The weakness of a voice, beautiful but not yet fully trained, her trepidation at singing before the maestro and his assembled judges, together with the long strain of preparation, had united in her undoing. She came back to the _pension_ without a word of encouragement, feeling at heart that she would never sing a note again. She sat down, laying her head on the little writing-table, amid a wild confusion of Miss Emily Carter’s pens and papers, and gave way to her despair. “I shall never sing again!” she said, “never--I’m a miserable failure; I haven’t any more voice than a sparrow, and there’s all that money wasted, thrown away!” Miss Emily eyed her quietly. She had the intense family pride which is nurtured in the State of Virginia; she did not need to be told, she knew that Rose had the loveliest voice in the world. As for these nasty, little, fat, insinuating Frenchmen! She took off her spectacles and smoothed her hair back from her temples; it was done as they did hair forty years ago; it matched her immaculate turn-over lace collar and hair brooch. “You’ll blot my letter, Rose,” she said calmly, with a little drawl that was inimitable; “I don’t see what you’re crying about, it will make your nose red; as for these horrid little Parisians, they know about as much about you as they do about heaven--which isn’t enough to get there!” In spite of herself Rose laughed feebly. “You’re the most prejudiced person I know, Cousin Emily!” “Prejudiced?” Miss Carter’s nostrils quivered scornfully, “I wasn’t raised within forty miles of Richmond for nothing, Rose Temple! Don’t you suppose I know a gentleman when I see one? What in the world can you expect from that person if he is a singing master? He wears a solitaire ring on his little finger and a red necktie. I reckon I’ve got eyes if I do wear spectacles.” “But he’s trained half the great singers of the world, Cousin Emily, and at first he was so kind about my voice--to-day--” Rose winked back the hot tears--“to-day he never said a word!” “Pig!” ejaculated Miss Carter unmoved. Rose laughed hysterically. “I shall never sing; I’d better take to washing and ironing for a living!” “You’d make a fortune,” retorted Miss Carter ironically; “while you were mooning you’d scorch all the shirt bosoms and smash the collars.”