all day, if you like. But here I will never sing. It would not be
possible for you to make me do it, so why do you try? You made a
mistake, that is all."

"Oh, that's all, is it?" repeated Anderson.

"Yes, truly," the child went on. "Perhaps you do not mean to be
unkind,--Mrs. Brown says you do not; but then why _are_ you unkind,
and why will you not take me home?"

"It is for your own good, child," repeated Anderson, doggedly. "You
know that well enough. I have told you how it will all be, a hundred
times. You were not meant for a little village, and a few dull old
people; you are for the world, the great world of wealth and fashion
and power. If you were not either a fool or--or--I don't know what,
you would see the matter as it really is. Mrs. Brown is right: most
girls would give their eyes, and their ears too, for such a chance as
you have. You are only a child, and a very foolish child; and you
don't know what is good for you. Some day you will be thankful to me
for making you sing."

Melody smiled, and her smile said much, for Anderson turned red, and
clenched his hands fiercely.

"You belong to the world, I tell you!" he cried again. "The world has
a right to you."

"To the world?" the child repeated softly. "Yes, it is true; I do
belong to the world,--to God's world of beauty, to the woods and
fields, the flowers and grasses, and to the people who love me. When