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7043AYM &MMT STOSY.] Pretty…

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7043AYM &MMT STOSY.] Pretty Miss Magniac. She -waa pretty beyond a doubt—the p,Mttiest of a. bunch of daughters which Pro- vidoice had' given to the late Richajd MagDiao. ghe had danced gaily through several seasons, had watched her sisters leave the parent \tt'm and scatter to the four winds of Heaven with the men of their choice, and yet re.Tiained herself unappro- priated. When a couple of y ?&rs later she was le.4 &lone in the world, speculation was grea,t a.atong her friends as tc,, wnat she would do. Each of her Sl.sœrs offe red, 8OX.ewha.t luke- warmly, a home; eaoh oifer was refused. a,nd relief was evident from all parties. "'I sha.11 support mys.!lt' somehow," she wrote to each in turn. so don't trouble about my future. I can v&ry well Lake care of myself." The truth of the la?t 'remark she had proved on more than one occasion, and the Bisters left her to her own devices, feeling tha.t, if Her'mione chose to ta.ke up a career apart from theim. it was entirely her own concern; which was, after aJJ. a very sen- sible view to ta.ke of the master. Into the room of the operatic star stepped pretty Miss Ma,niae. She looked at him with intejest, and found room for regret that the owner of the most beautiful voice in the world have such a tub-like figure and such pig-like eyes. All this Hashed through her miad as he bowed her to a seat. delivered himself of several poJite re.ma.rks. and nna-lly said, with &n air of briskness:— "Aliens, mademoiselle: to the business." He struck a deep chord on the piano, then a serie.3 of delicate runs like the falling of water. He glanced from the sheet of music before him to Miss .Magni.ac. Yon know dis ? Bi'rn Sing and have courage. ruadecnoiselLe; I shall not ea.t you." She had been well taught; she had ambitions, which had broa,ght he-r to the great a-rmste. She sang her best, knowing th&t <m jhis depended the future, which glowed before her fuJ.1 of hope. She sang well-more than well. The operatic maestro nodded as the full. dear notes Coated out and nlled the room with melody. When she h<)d finished he turned roumd. You sing well, mademoiselle, have a.:r:.b.iÙon.s for the is it not so?" Yes monsiem" "Ah' mademe iseUe, I tell you de truth; you have a. oha.:ming voice; you have what is so rare. a vorce of tears. In short, you have a delightful, voice for the salon; but for opera—non. I am ashamed to say that teaa"s nearly spra.ng to Miss .\tag-ILiac's pretty eyes; they were most certainly in her voice when she spoke. You are quite sure—that—I could never Stay, for the you must ha.ve the voiMt of iron.. as well as of softness and sweetness; you have de latter. but not the former; you must have also the strength, the phyaioaJ courage, the power- which you have not gc<t. I repeat—the salon.. but not the opera. Mademoiselle, you can bring tears to the eyes of your bearers—in the salon; in the opera, house you would hardly be heard beyond the first few rows of the stalls. I have told you the truth. Be content, mademoiselle; tht3 life of art is a hard one; you. would ruin j'our voice. a.nd for what? Nothing, I tell you'—nothing." Thus did Miss Magniac's castles in the air fall with a mightly crash to tne ground. But she went from the shrine of geniua with a grain of comfort. There yet remained "-the &aJon. There was a surging crowd in the room. Humphrey Dermison made h'b way to the doorway from the block on the marble stair- case, at the head of which he had greeted his hostess, aLod then passed on to make room for others. He was tall—exceptionally so-and this gave him a distinct advantage over hia fellows. From his superior height he looked into the big siakn, where amid green palms and star-like aza,leas a platform had been erected. He remembered that M'osio" had been written on his card of invitation. A bounder with long hair-he described the violinist thus—had just {hushed his solo. A burst of applause was followed by the usuaJ bebbel of voices 'breaking out afresh after the restraint of silence. Wedged in by a mass of intervening humanity, Denitison caught sight of a girl in the distance whose face riveted his wander- ins attention. He bad never seen her before. and yet—she wa.s making her way on to the platform. He heard a chord struck by a 'master hamd. The girl's face was turned on the crowd now, a.nd from her lips there noated a note of such exquisite sweetness. viho'nting with such soul. that the clamour of yoi<'es ceased as if by magic. And with the rest listened Dennison.. When the last thrilling notes faded away dead silence reigned in the crowded room while one might have counted ten; then applause, sincere and rapturous, broke forth. to which the girl bowed slightly, and descend- ing from the platform was lost to sight. Never, said Dennison to himself, had such' music falIeTi on his ears; such a voice—une voix d'or, as the French put it. It was not till the girl mounted the platform again, an hour la.ter. that he discovered who she was. Voices behind told him whe,.t he wan-ted to know so much.. A Miss Mag-niae-left badly off—you know that sort of thing—cams her living teaching by day and singing by night. A very pretty girl with an exquisite voice." Then someone said "Hush!" beside him. a-nd the talkers ceased. as the prelude of a.. dainty little air rippled out. 'Denmison had edged his way nearer the platform, and the words of the little song fell distinctly on his eager ears. They were quite new to him; dainty words set to a. plaintive little accainnanimen.t; and eujng as tlUrely one else could have sun them. AmoUter burst of appl3,useend the singer vanished; he saw her again a few mo-ments la-ter in her pretty white frock, with its dainty garniture of fresh lilies of the vaJley. with their 800ft gr-een leaves in the laœ at her bosom. A tall, enormonsly stout man was talking eagerly to her, and Denni- aon recognised the famous tenor whose voice had taken the whole of musical London by sto-rm that season. He wa<s near enough to catch what he was guying. Eh, bipn! Was I not right, mademoi- selle? A voice altogether charming for the salon. Behold, Lhere were tears in a dozen pairs of eyes as you sang. Be thankful for the gift as it is, mademoiselle; pemembar Phaeion." He heard no more; someone ca-me up a.nd claimed his attention, and when he looked round again Miss Magniac was gone. He left the reception with a fresh interest in his somewhat lonely life; at leaat he had dis- covered her name. It was on the knees of the gods whether he should see her again: if he did- Teaches by day and sings for her bread by night. What a life for her. Poor, hard- worked child!" was his unspoken thought, as he reached his flat and let himself in with his latchkey. Fortune, the capricious ruler of destinies, had smiled on Hermione Magniac since her fateful interview with the famous musician. &he had taken his advice, found her vocation in drawing-room sinking a.ud teaching, and was overwhelmed wiLh more engagements than she kn'e'w how to fulul. Her voice, they said, was a voice 01f gold, and a voioe of tears, too; and pretty Miss Mugniae was becoming the fashion in drawing-room a'tistes. It was a SlIDaU triumph as with the one for which her soul had Icn'ged. but-it was too good to despise. It wa-, nearly the end of the season now, and she was wondering whether it would not be wise to take a complete holiday some- where on the sea coast during August before going to visit some of her sis.ters, as she had already promised. London looked and felt dusty and oppressively hot, the trees in the parks had lost their fresh greenness, the Sowers dropped with the ardent heat c.f KinG .Sol. and Hennione Ma.gniac felt as if the sajne might be said o.f her a.p.'peara.nce. S.he was startled out of the apathy in which the heat had plunged her by hearing a child's SCXeaM. What happened next she could not have told you. so swiftly did she think and act. But. th--ve who saw the deed—the swift rush in.t.o the traffic to the place where a small. boy ran in of his life- the heavily lumbering dray--the cry—and the silence—and the curly-headed child safe and silent from sheer fright in the arms cf a stalwart police-man—and down beneath the horses' feet a ngure in a white dre:,s, with ruddy-brown hair and closed eyes, still and deathly. pushed his way through the crowd: it was Dennison. "Dickie"' he said, and then stopped, his eyes on that still. white Bgure, over which a h2.Btily summoned doctor, who was passing at the moment. was bending. She -ca-me to in a world of white beds and nurses; so it seemed to her. She looked round vaguely with .a, wonder arrowing within her. What was this place? How and why had she come to it? Then recollection came to her swiftly; she uttered a cry. "The child!" she whispered, eagerly. "The child'" Is sa.fe." said the nurse beside her, "quite safe. you must lie very quiet." But-I feel so tired-and achy. -Am I ill, nurse?" You were knocked down by the horses; and all will be well. You mru3t not talk." Pretty Mi'ss Magniac closed her tired eyes; a delicious feeling of languor stole over her; yet Me cauld not why her hd ached and her back felt so stiff and numb. Nor could she understand how it was that a clock in the distance struck eleven slowly. and the 911n was shining in through the long windows, while she had been walking netar the park at four o'clock in the afternoon. It puzzled her, and she lay very still, drea.ming faintly of a voice which Mumg—sang—sang persiste'ntly in her ea:ra, Never a,ga,in, never again. There was a bandage round her head. where the horses had kicked her, she sup- and a doctor came and looked at her. She opened her eyes and amiled, and he saw for the nrst ti,me since her poor, maimed body had been broiie-t into the hospital more tha.n a week aigo how pretty she was. The pretty Mise M&gndac who sang so charm- ingly. he had heard of her from Dennison. who came every day, and twice a day, with the curly-headed child to inquire for her. "This is he said, sitting down beside her. "Better? Feeling' more yourself, eh?" Yes. Wnat is to-day, doctor?" "To-day? Tuesday, the .KMh of July." The 30th! Then I have been here—I don't understand." You have been with us a week," he said. cheerily. You must remeim.ber, my dear young lady, that you've had a nasty accident, and homes are more easily broken than mended, you know. But we shall do famously now." But—but——" "No buts." said the doctor; "there is noth- ing for you to worry about. Be&t aseTired o.f that. Only get well; that is all we ask of you. Weeks passed, and still pretty Miss Magniac was in hospital, and still Demnison. and the child came to ask for her. Then one day they were told they might see her. She was told of their intended visit, and she looked forward to it with a tinge of curiosity. Then, as the. door opened, she glanced at the bowl of roses which were put beside her every d&y, fresh. Now, perha.p.s, she guessed where they came from. But she was speechless when Dennison. with otian in his voice, thanked her for his child's life, the child meanwhile standing beside the bed, looking with grave blue eyes at the pale face of the pretty lady and the brightness of her smile α she put out her uninjured hajid and touched his pretty curls. Tha,t was only the beginning of it, for suan- mer parsed. into autumn acd. autumn almost faded into cold winter before there was any word of pretty Miss M&gniao leaving the hospitaL And every day without fail canie Dennison, sotmetianea with the child, some- times without, to see her. and she grew to watch for him. She spoke little about her- self, and much about the child, about muaio. about the arts in general. But he learnt without her help what manner of woman she was. A day came when Miss Magnia<; asked the doctor a question. Doctor, you have never really told .me the extent of my injuries," she said, with the smile he loved to watch breaking over he.r thin face. He was interested in his patient. I wonder if you are hiding some- thing from me:' It is not kind of you if you are. Let me know the truth." The doctor hesitated. It was a hard thing to tell her-this pretty girl, with her &oat, dark eyes, and her sweet voice, and her appealing smile—that she would never, humanly speaking, walk again. Yet it had to be told. Well." he said, with would-be cheerful- TI-eSS, you must be careful for a time, you know, my dear young lady. You must not expect to be able to run about as before—at once." "To run about!" she echoed, slowly, then turned to him swiftly. I know what you are trying to tell me," she said; "I shall not be able to walk ? I shall be a cripple ?" The doctor bowed his head; he could not speak the words. But she understood; now she knew why her limbs felt so numb. why she felt so disinclined to move even in bed. "Will you tell Mr. Dennison for me?" she said, presently, and that was all. But there was no need, for Dennison knew it already. She asked him to telegraph for one of her sisters; it had not been necessary before; there was no need to worry them, she said, but now—now that she was to be a cripple, a dependent being on the care of others- something must be done. I sha.U never sing again," she whispered. more to herself than to Denni-MMi. but he heard her, and then and there he knew that the time to speak had come at last. Won t you sing to me sometimes. Her- mione?" he sa.id. gently. 5he turned her wet face to him, with utter bewilderment in her eyes. Then a slow, werm colour flowed into her thin cheek. I am a very lonely fellow." he continued, "and there is Dickie; he lost his mother when he was b-orn;, won't you tea.ch him what a mother really is? Won't you make us both happy? Sermione. you know I love you. He went the best way to win her by plead- ing the child and his loneliness, a.nd perhaps he guessed that. You are &orry for me." she said, "yo'u pity me—and I will not be-be maj-ried for pity." "I lo.ve you," he said. simply, "and I want you so much. darling." A—a cripple?" The words were whispered rather than spoken. For answer he put his strong arm round her and drew her tired head to his breast. Someone must take: care of you," he &aid. "Why not let me do it?" And in the end she did. Medical science, which has increased its wonderful knowledge of late. has been able to do something for Mrs. Dennison; ahe is no longer the helpless cripple that she was, and she still sings—with mo.re sweetness and feel- ing, if that be possible. tha<n when she sang her way into Dennison's heart with her voice of gold, because the greatest thing in the world has come to her at last.

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