The second incident referred to occurred one snowy night as the _diva_ was leaving the stage-door of the Opera House at Philadelphia. An old lady, very neatly attired, but evidently not in affluent circumstances, was waiting for her as she crossed the foot-way to her carriage. When Madame Melba appeared the old lady remarked, "Madame, I have just heard you sing, and I've waited here in the hope that you will let me take your hand." Melba, deeply touched, impulsively kissed the old lady on either cheek. This salutation won from its recipient these simple words, which Melba says she will never forget, "God bless your beautiful heart, my dear!" My interesting visit to Madame Melba terminated with, on my part, a very natural regret. I carried away with me an indelible impression--the impression of a queenly woman, an incomparable artist, bearing her unrivalled gifts and her regal position in the world of music with a simplicity and a womanly modesty which, while unable to enhance their value, add a singular grace and charm to their possession. And I found it a pleasing reflection that I had been accorded an audience of a queen who is delightfully unconscious of her sovereignty, and who, even if robbed of the gifts which now enchant the world, would still retain those qualities which enchant her friends--her bright intelligence, her ever-ready sympathies, and her true womanliness. [Illustration: His Home Coming BY E. M. JAMESON.] "Another present, Honor? I thought you had really received the last." "So did I," replied Honor, sitting up in her low chair, and beginning to untie the string that was round the small parcel. "People are very kind; wonderfully kind." Mrs. Latimer looked up quickly at the sound of the dejected voice. She was a slight, sweet-looking woman, in widow's dress, whose face, despite its never-varying sadness, bore traces of great beauty. The present proved to be a very beautiful pendant of emeralds and diamonds. Mrs. Latimer, having admired it as it lay on its satin bed, handed it back to her daughter. "So kind of your Uncle James," she said, as she did so, watching meantime, with puzzled uneasiness, Honor's listless fingering of the jewel-case. "Very kind!" remarked the girl, tilting her chin somewhat superciliously. "Am I not marrying a rich man? If Ronald had been poor, how would Uncle James have treated me?" "Honor, Honor," said her mother, a pained look crossing her face, "how very unlike you to be so bitter." Honor crossed over to where her mother sat and dropped down on the rug beside her, and taking one of her mother's hands pressed it to her cheek.