“No,”

“Can this youngster sing, Helen?”

“She sings very nicely to herself sometimes, but I do not know how she would manage before company.  Will you try something, Sybylla?”

Uncle Jay-Jay waited to hear no more, but carrying me to the music-stool, and depositing me thereon, warned me not to attempt to leave it before singing something.

To get away to myself, where I was sure no one could bear me, and sing and sing till I made the echoes ring, was one of the chief joys of my existence, but I had never made a success in singing to company.  Besides losing all nerve, I had a very queer voice, which every one remarked.  However, tonight I made an effort in my old favourite, “Three Fishers Went Sailing”.  The beauty of the full-toned Ronisch piano, and Everard’s clever and sympathetic accompanying, caused me to forget my audience, and sing as though to myself alone, forgetting that my voice was odd.

When the song ceased Mr Grey wheeled abruptly on the stool and said, “Do you know that you have one of the most wonderful natural voices I have heard.  Why, there is a fortune in such a voice if it were, trained!  Such chest-notes, such feeling, such rarity of tone!”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Mr Grey,” I said shortly.

“Upon my word as a man, I mean every word I say,” he returned enthusiastically.

Everard Grey’s opinion on artistic matters was considered worth having.  He dabbled in all the arts—­writing, music, acting, and sketching, and went to every good concert and play in Sydney.  Though he was clever at law, it was whispered by some that he would wind up on the stage, as he had a great leaning that way.

I walked away from the piano treading on air.  Would I really make a singer?  I with the voice which had often been ridiculed; I who had often blasphemously said that I would sell my soul to be able to sing just passably.  Everard Grey’s opinion gave me an intoxicated sensation of joy.

“Can you recite?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I answered firmly.

“Give us something,” said uncle Jay-Jay.

I recited Longfellow’s “The Slave’s Dream”.  Everard Grey was quite as enthusiastic over this as he had been about my singing.

“Such a voice!  Such depth and width!  Why, she could fill the Centennial Hall without an effort.  All she requires is training.”

“By George, she’s a regular dab!  But I wish she would give us something not quite so glum,” said uncle Jay-Jay.

I let myself go.  Carried away by I don’t know what sort of a spirit, I exclaimed, “Very well, I will, if you will wait till I make up, and will help me.”

I disappeared for a few minutes, and returned made up as a fat old Irish woman, with a smudge of dirt on my face.  There was a general laugh.

Would Mr Hawden assist me?  Of course he was only too delighted, and flattered that I had called upon him in preference to the others.  What would he do?