No--her voice was all she had. She would live for it and be famous, and the year of terror and anguish she had spent in San Francisco would become a dim memory upon which she could some day look back with calm. But before she went she would sing for Pierpont and hear what he said. The thought had hardly formed in her mind when she was out in the hall and stealing noiselessly down the stairs of the silent house. It struck her as odd that the house should be so quiet, as these were the hours in which Pierpont’s pupils usually made the welkin resound with their efforts. Perhaps he was out. But this was not so, for in the lower hall she met the girl with the fair hair and prominent blue eyes who possessed the fine soprano voice she had so often listened to, and who in response to her query told her that Mr. Pierpont was in, but not giving lessons this afternoon. In answer to her knock she heard his “come in” and opened the door. He was sitting on a divan idly turning over some loose sheets of music. The large, sparsely furnished room--it was in reality the back drawing-room of the house--looked curiously gray and cold in the drear afternoon light. It was only slightly furnished--his bed and toilet articles being in a curtained alcove. In the center of its unadorned, occupied bareness, the grand piano, gleaming richly, stood open, the stool in front of it. “Miss Moreau,” he said, starting to his feet, “I thought you were sick in bed. How are you? You’ve had a dreadful experience. I’ve been sending away my pupils because I was told you were asleep.” “Oh, I’m quite well now,” she said, “only my head aches a little. Yes, I was frightened last night--a burglar came in, crept up the bough of the pepper-tree. I was dreadfully frightened then, but I’m all right now. I’ve come to sing for you.” “To sing for me!” he exclaimed; “but you’re not well enough to sing. You’ve had a bad fright and you look--excuse me”--he took her hand--“you’re burning up with fever. Take my advice and go upstairs, and as soon as Mrs. Garcia comes in we’ll get a doctor.” “No--no!” she said almost violently; “I’m quite well now. My hand’s hot and so is my head, but that’s natural after the fright I had last night. I want to sing for you now and see what you say about my voice.” “But, you know, you can’t do yourself justice and I can’t form a fair opinion. Why do you want to sing this afternoon when you wouldn’t all winter?” “Well,” she said, “I don’t mind telling you. I’m going to Europe to study. I’ve just made up my mind.” “Going to Europe! Isn’t that very sudden? But it will be splendid! When are you going?” “Soon--in a day or two--as soon as I can get my things packed in my trunks.” He looked at her curiously. Her manner, which was usually calm and deliberate, was marked by tremulous restlessness. She spoke rapidly and like one laboring under suppressed excitement.