artistically, than she had ever done in her life. The old art was not so
perfect, perhaps, but there was in the voice all that she had learned and
loved and suffered and hoped. When she rose from the piano to a storm of
applause, and saw the shining faces and tearful eyes round her, her own
eyes filled with tears. These people--most of them--had known and loved
her since she was a child, and loved her still without envy or any taint.
Her father was standing near, and with smiling face she caught from his
hand the handkerchief with which he was mopping his eyes, and kissed him,
saying:

"I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear smithy-
man."

Then she turned again to look for Louis. Near the door she saw him, and
with so strange a face, so wild a look, that, unheeding eager requests to
sing again, she responded to the gesture he made, made her way through
the crowd to the hall-way, and followed him up the stairs, and to the
little boudoir beside her bedroom. As she entered and shut the door,
a low sound like a moan broke from him. She went quickly to lay a hand
upon his arm, but he waved her back. "What is it, Louis?" she asked, in
a bewildered voice. "Where is the will?" he said.

"Where is the will, Louis," she repeated after him mechanically, staring
at his face, ghostly in the moonlight.

"The will you found behind the picture in the library."

"O Louis!" she cried, and made a gesture of despair. "O Louis!"

"You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec."