"Miriam will be glad to teach you," put in Ambrose North. "She likes to
do it because she can do it so well."

The red grew deeper in Miriam's lined face, for every word of praise
from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down
her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did.

[Sidenote: An Hour of Song]

Afterward, while Miriam was clearing off the table, Eloise went to the
piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She
chose folk-songs and tender melodies--little songs made of tears and
laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep,
vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare
sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood.

"Don't stop," pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers
lightly over the keys.

"I don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but I love
to sing."

"And we love to have you," said North. "I think, Barbara, we must get a
new piano."

"I wouldn't," answered Eloise, before Barbara could speak. "The years
improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" Without
waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness: