She had written it at a moment when her fiery heart was consumed with pain over her lover’s attentions to a beautiful, dark-eyed coquette in New Orleans, and it was quite meritorious. She did not dream that Percy Seabright, who listened with such sympathetic eyes, had often given his convulsed friends a ridiculous parody of her style of rendering the song. But Mr. Seabright, although very fond of directing his wit against other people, was quite vain himself, and responded cordially to the call upon himself for a recitation, giving one of some length, with good effect, albeit with rather theatrical style. Then he sat down, and the girls began to tell ghost-stories and startling dreams. “Make them stop it--oh, do, they frighten me!” Italy whispered nervously to Alexie. “Hush, girls, I don’t like to hear such things!” cried the lovely blonde, who looked like a piece of Dresden china, so fair, so fragile was her bright, blonde beauty. Never were two girls more different at heart than Alys and Alexie, in spite of their being twins. They looked alike, but there was more soul in Alexie’s face, and her heart was noble and true, while Alys was selfish and unprincipled. Neither was there between the two girls the affection usual between twins. Alexie was always chaffing Alys, and Alys was always sneering at Alexie. They could not harmonize. “A song from Miss Vale,” cried several voices, but she drew back unwillingly. “Do not refuse them. Every one is expected to contribute to the amusements of the night,” cried Ralph Allen, putting the guitar-ribbon over her head. “Please give us that sweet thing you sang for Alexie and me the other night in the garden among the roses.” Francis Murray turned quickly. He had never heard Italy sing. He did not know that there was a little song-bird pent up in that graceful white throat, and yet he fancied that with those wondrous eyes she could sing well. He saw the lovely white hands fluttering over the guitar-strings. A strain of exquisite melody mingled with the ocean tone, then Italy’s face turned upward to the stars, and she sang a love-song. Not a sound from any one broke upon the divine sweetness of the night and the song, but every eye lingered in almost wonder upon the lovely young girl singing to the stars of love in a voice as sweet and clear as the nightingale’s. The song died into silence, the white fingers fell from the strings. There was tumultuous applause. “Miss Vale, you are a born prima donna,” Percy Seabright said gallantly, unheeding Mrs. Dunn’s envious frown. The young men began to crowd about Italy. Her beauty and her genius had charmed them. They pleaded for another song; Francis Murray, like one waking from a dream, added his entreaties. She smiled dreamily and sang again.