It was a simple, old-fashioned home parlor entertainment, and no doubt most musical artists would have sneered at the programme, but Alice had a wonderfully sweet and sympathetic soprano voice, and as Frank sat watching the fitful flames play hide-and-seek in the open fire, and listened to those time-worn ballads, it seemed to him he had never heard singing quite so sweet. Much depends upon the time and place, and perhaps the romance of the open fire sparkling beneath the bank of evergreen, and making the roses come into the fair singer's cheeks, and warming the golden sheen of her hair, had much to do with it. When she came to "Ben Bolt," that old ditty that has all the pathos of our lost youth in it, there was a tiny quiver in her voice; and when she finished, had he been near he would have seen the glint of two unshed tears in her eyes, for the song carried her thoughts to where her mother was at rest. It was the first time he had ever heard that song, and he never afterwards forgot it. "Now, Bertie," said Alice coaxingly, after she had finished singing, "haven't I earned the box?" It was an appeal that few men could resist, and certainly not Albert Page, and, true to his promise, he gave her the mysterious box. With excited fingers she untied the cords, tore off the wrapper, and as she lifted the cover she saw--a beautiful seal-skin sacque! We will leave to the reader's imagination any and all the expressions that followed, for no pen can give them with all their girlish fervor, and when the exciting incident was over, it was time for retiring. That evening, with its simple home enjoyments, sincere and wholesome, its bright open fire, the unaffected cordiality of brother and sister, and beyond all, the feeling that he was a welcome guest, made those few hours ones long to be remembered by Frank. To begin with, the cheerful fire was a novelty to him, and perhaps that added a touch of romance. Then Alice herself was a surprise. He had been captivated by her picture, but had half expected to find her a timid country girl, too shy to do aught but answer "yes" and "no," and look pleasant. Then her voice was also a surprise, and when he reached the seclusion of his room it haunted him. And more than that, so intently had its bird-like sweetness charmed him that it usurped all his thoughts. He had thanked her for the entertainment, of course, but now that he was alone, it seemed to him that his formal thanks had been too feeble an expression. "I don't wonder Bert adores her," he thought; "she is the most winsome, unaffected, and sweet little lady I ever met. If I were to remain in this house a week I should be madly in love with her myself." He was a good deal so, as it was. CHAPTER XII A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA'AM