Then she said no more, for to her utter surprise she saw Julius Revington leading Irene to the piano. Irene had always declined to play and sing before to-night, so her friend was quite excusable for the almost open-mouthed surprise with which she regarded her movements. The white figure settled itself on the piano stool, the white hands fluttered over the keys, a melancholy chord was softly struck, then---- Mrs. Leslie held her breath. Irene was singing in a voice no one had suspected her of possessing--pure, clear, rarely tender and sweet--those sad, pathetic verses, "Remember and Forget." A sudden silence fell on every one in the room. No one was less surprised than Mrs. Leslie. No one had dreamed how obstinately Irene had concealed her gift of a sweet, bird-like voice until now. As the clear, well-trained tones rose and fell, every one was dumb with astonishment and delight. "When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree. Be the green grass above me With flowers and dewdrops wet: And, if thou wilt, remember, And, if thou wilt, forget. "I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain, I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on as if in pain. And, dreaming through the twilight, That doth not rise and set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget." Mrs. Leslie felt a light touch on her shoulder. She looked up into the pale, agitated face of Mr. Stuart. He bent down and whispered: "I can doubt no longer. She is too fatally like Elaine. She is, she must be, my own child. She has my lost wife's face and voice, and it is the same song she sang the night when her fatal beauty and sweetness wiled my heart from me. What must I do?" She saw that he was deeply agitated, and fearing some impulsive action, whispered back, warningly: "Do nothing--yet. Stranger coincidences have happened. Wait until you learn more." With a sigh he acquiesced in her advice, and returned to his seat. But his agitation had not been unobserved by Mrs. Stuart. Her soul was on fire with anger and hatred toward the beautiful singer. She would have given anything she possessed to have heard what her husband had confided to Mrs. Leslie. Guy Kenmore sat silent, lost in a maze of troubled thought. He had not meant to listen to Mr. Stuart's words, but in his proximity to Mrs. Leslie, the sharp, agonized whisper had penetrated to his hearing. An uncontrollable eagerness came over him to hear Mrs. Leslie's promised story of her beautiful _protege_. CHAPTER XXXIV. Irene was playing a waltz now--something as gay and joyous as her song had been sweet and pensive. Guy Kenmore touched Mrs. Leslie's arm. "Let us go on the balcony. The moonlight is so beautiful," he said.