ever sung at home, better than she thought she could sing. The
applause that followed was tumultuous. By this time much beer had
been consumed; the audience was in a mood for enjoying good things.

'That's something like, old girl!' cried Totty, clapping her on the
back. 'Have a drink out of my glass. It's only ginger-beer; it can't
hurt you. This is jolly! Ain't it a lark to be alive?'

The pale-faced girl who had sung of May-blossoms looked across the
table with eyes in which jealousy strove against admiration. There
were remarks aside between the men with regard to Thyrza's personal
appearance.

She must sing again. They were not going to be left with hungry ears
after a song like that. Thyrza still suffered from the sense that
she was doing wrong, but the praise was so sweet to her; sweeter,
she thought, than anything she had ever known. She longed to repeat
her triumph.

Totty named another song; the faint resistance was overcome, and
again the room hushed itself, every hearer spellbound. It was a
voice well worthy of cultivation, excellent in compass, with rare
sweet power. Again the rapturous applause, and again the demand for
more. Another! she should not refuse them. Only one more and they
would be content. And a third time she sang; a third time was borne
upwards on clamour.

'Totty, I _must_ go,' she whispered. 'What's the time?'

'It's only just after ten,' was the reply. 'You'll soon run home.'