“Come,” she said, going to the piano stool and pushing it nearer the keyboard, “I’ll be very busy now and I don’t want to waste any time.” He moved reluctantly to the piano and seated himself. “Have you your music?” he asked. “No, but I can sing what some of your pupils do. I can sing ‘Knowest thou the land?’ and Mrs. Burrell sings that. Where is it?” Her feverish haste and nervousness impressed him more than ever as her hands tossed aside the sheets of piled-up music, throwing them about the piano and snatching at them as they slipped to the floor. From there he picked up the ‘Mignon’ aria which she had overlooked and spreading it on the rack struck the opening notes. She leaned over him to see the first line and he felt that she was trembling violently. He raised his hands and wheeled round on the stool. “Miss Moreau,” he said, “I truly don’t think you’re well enough to sing. Don’t you think we’d better put it off till to-morrow?” “No, no--I’m going to now. I’m ready. I’m anxious to. I must. Begin again, please.” He turned obediently and began again to play the chords of accompaniment. He had been for a long time intensely anxious to hear her voice, of which he had heard so much. It irritated him now to have her determined to sing when she was obviously ill and still suffering from the effects of her fright. The accompaniment reached the point where the voice joins it. He played softly, alert for the first rich notes. Mariposa’s chest rose with an inflation of air and she began to sing. A sound, harsh, veiled and thin, filled the room. There was no volume, nor resonance, nor beauty in it. It was the ghost of a voice. The teacher was so shocked that for a moment he stumbled in the familiar accompaniment. Then he went on, bending his head low over the keys, fearful of her seeing his face. Sounds unmusical, rasping, and discordant came from her lips. Everything that had once made it rich and splendid was gone, the very volume of it had dwindled to a thin, muffled thread, the color had flown from every tone. For a bar or two she went on, then she stopped. Pierpont dared not turn at first. But he heard her behind him say hoarsely: “What--what--is it?” Then he wheeled round and saw her with wild eyes and white lips. For a moment he could say nothing. Her appearance struck him with alarm, and he sat dumb on the stool staring at her. “What is it?” she cried. “What has happened to it? Where is my voice?” “It’s--it’s--certainly not in good condition,” he stammered. “It’s gone,” she answered in a wail of agony; “it’s gone. My voice has gone! What shall I do? It’s gone!” “Your fright of last night has affected it,” he said, speaking as kindly as he could, “and you’re not well. I told you you were feverish and ought not to sing. Rest will probably restore it.” “Let me try it again,” she said wildly. “It may be better. Play again.”