the room,--a dark man with an eager face and restless, discontented
eyes; the same man who had watched Melody over the wall of the old
burying-ground, and heard her sing. He had never heard her sing since,
save for that little snatch of "Robin Ruff," which she had sung to the
children the day when he stood and pleaded with Vesta Dale to sell her
soul for her sister's comfort.

"And here's Mr. Anderson come to see you, according to custom," said
the woman; "and I hope you are glad to see him, I'm sure, for he's
your best friend, dearie, and he does love you so; it would be quite
surprising, if you weren't the sweet lamb you are, sitting there like
a flower all in the dark."

She paused, and waited for a reply; but none came. The two exchanged a
glance of exasperation, and the woman shook her fist at the child; but
her voice was still soft and smooth as she resumed her speech.

"And you'll sing us a little song now, dearie, won't you? To think
that you've been here near a week now, and I haven't heard the sound
of that wonderful voice yet, only in speaking. It's sweet as an
angel's then, to be sure; but dear me! if you knew what Mr. Anderson
has told me about his hearing you sing that day! Such a particular
gentleman as he is, too, anybody would tell you! Why, I've seen girls
with voices as they thought the wonder of the world, and their friends
with them, and Mr. Anderson would no more listen to them than the dirt
under his feet; no, indeed, he wouldn't. And you that he thinks so
much of! why, it makes me feel real bad to see you not take that
comfort in him as you might. Why, he wants to be a father to you,
dearie. He hasn't got any little girl of his own, and he will give you
everything that's nice, that he will, just as soon as you begin to get