"She sings, 'My Heart's Own Heart,'" Miss Honey called back defiantly. "And it's printed on the song, 'To Madame Edith Holt!'" shrilled Caroline. The familiar prelude was played with a firm, elastic touch, the opening chords struck, and a great shining voice, masterful, like a golden trumpet, filled the room. Caroline sat dumb; Miss Honey, instinctively humming the prelude, got up from her foot-stool and followed the music, unconscious that she walked. She had been privileged to hear more good singing in her eight years than most people have in twenty-four, had Miss Honey, and she knew that this was no ordinary occasion. She did not know she was listening to one of the greatest voices her country had ever produced--perhaps in time to be known for the head of them all--but the sensitive little soul swelled in her and her childish jealousy was drowned deep in that river of wonderful sound. Higher and sweeter and higher yet climbed the melody; one last triumphant leap, and it was over. "_My heart--my heart--my heart's own heart!_" The Princess stood before them in the echoes of her glory, her breath quick, her eyes brilliant. "Well?" she said, looking straight at Miss Honey, "do I sing as well as your mother?" Miss Honey clenched her fists and caught her breath. Her heart was breaking, but she could not lie. "You--you--" she motioned blindly to Caroline, and turned away. "You sing better," Caroline began sullenly; but the lady pointed to Miss Honey. "No, you tell me," she insisted remorselessly. Miss Honey faced her. "You--you sing better than my m-mother," she gulped, "but I _love_ her better, and she's nicer than you, and I don't love you at _all_!" She buried her face in the red velvet throne, and sobbed aloud with excitement and fatigue. Caroline ran to her: how could she have loved that cruel woman? She cast an ugly look at the Princess as she went to comfort Miss Honey, but the Princess was at the throne before her. "Oh, I am abominable," she cried. "I am too horrid to live! It wasn't kind of me, _cherie_, and I love you for standing up for your mother. There's no one to do as much for me, when _I'm_ down and out--no one!" Sorrow swept over her flexible face like a veil, and seizing Miss Honey in her strong nervous arms she wept on her shoulder. Caroline, worn with the strain of the day, wept, too, and even the General, abandoned in the great chair, burst into a tiny warning wail. Quick as thought the Princess was upon him, and had raised him against her cheek. "Hush, hush, don't cry--don't cry, little thing," she whispered, and sank into one of the high carved chairs with him. "No, no, I'll hold him," she protested, as Delia entered, her arms out. "I'm going to sing to him. May I? He's sleepy." Delia nodded indulgently. "For half an hour," she said, as one allowing a great privilege, "and then we must go. The children are tired." "What do you sing to him?" the Princess questioned humbly.