But Jaquelina's voice--clear and fresh as a nightingale's--soared upward without the least apparent effort. The sweet, pathetic ballad was rendered exquisitely. There was a perfect hush throughout the room until it ended. Then they crowded around her. "Another," and "another," and "another," they pleaded when she would have risen. It was Violet at last who brought it to an end by saying carelessly: "Let us go back to the dancing now. We can have music every day, but dancing only now and then." "Thank you," said a low voice over Jaquelina's shoulder as she was passing out of the door. She looked back and saw Ronald Valchester's face looking down at her with bright, shining eyes. "You have given me a great deal of pleasure," he said. "I am very glad," she replied, and the next moment, she scarcely knew how it happened, he was walking by her side, and her hand was resting on his arm. They went out upon the lawn and down the laurel walk. "Instead of dancing will you give me this half-hour?" he had said to her. "I wish to talk to you about this beautiful treasure you have possessed so long unknown to us all." "What do you mean?" she asked, as they wandered along the path beneath the whispering laurels. "Your voice," he said. "Do you know, Miss Meredith, that it is really marvelous? I cannot tell you how it has surprised and delighted me." And again she said, simply as before: "I am glad." He looked at the lovely young face and saw that she was pleased, but not at all surprised. "Someone has told you this before," he said quickly. "I am not the first to lay a laurel at your feet." In the soft light he saw the color deepen in her cheeks and the long-fringed lashes droop low. "My teachers have told me that my voice was fine," she said, quietly, "and--and I have sung in school-concerts a few times. The people praised me, then." "It is no wonder you were not afraid to sing after me," he said. "I was afraid for you at first. You see I have practised for many years and people think me a better performer than the most. But I own that my light has paled before a brighter star." "You must not say so," she said quickly. "I have only had a few months' training. My voice is not at all cultivated." "It is naturally superb," he answered; "I have heard voices in opera that were no sweeter than yours. And yet they were _prima donnas_ whom all the world praised. Perhaps you have heard that, too, before." "My teacher told me I might successfully choose an operatic career," she answered quietly, yet with a sigh whose meaning he did not understand. "I hope you will not do so," he answered quickly. "I have always so much disliked the idea of a public life for a woman." "We talked of that at school," she replied, "but our singing master thought quite differently. He declared that a really fine voice actually belonged to the world." "Shall you return to the school this winter?" "No," with a quickly suppressed sigh.