Her clear, delightful eyes were fixed upon him; he felt for the first time the thrill of her personality; their light caused him to hesitate, and then to accept her invitation eagerly.  He heard her remind her father that he had promised to come to-night to hear her sing Elizabeth.  He would be there too.  He would see her to-night as well, and he stood watching the beautiful horses bearing father and daughter swiftly away.  The shady Dulwich street dozed under a bright sky, and the bloom of the flowering trees was shedding its fine dust.  He thought of Palestrina and Wagner, and a delicious little breeze sent a shower of bloom about his feet, as if to remind him of the pathos of the passing illusion of which we are a part.  He stood watching the carriage, and the happiness and the sorrow of things choked him when he turned away.

She was happy with her father, and she felt that he loved her better than any lover.  The unique experience of taking him to St. Joseph’s in her carriage, and the event of singing to him that night at Covent Garden, absorbed her, and she dozed in her happiness like a beautiful rose.  Never had she been so happy.  She was happier than she merited.  The thought passed like a little shadow, and a moment after all was brightness again.  Her father was the real love of her life; the rest was mere excitement, and she wondered why she sought it; it only made her unhappy.  Monsignor was right....  But she did not wish to think of him.

On the steps of St. Joseph’s, she bade her father good-bye, and remained looking back till she could see him no more.  Then she settled herself comfortably under her parasol, intent on the enjoyment of their reconciliation.  The two days she had spent with him looked back upon her like a dream from which she had only just awakened.  As in a dream, there were blurred outlines and places where the line seemed to have so faded that she could no longer trace it.  The most distinct picture was when she stood, her hand affectionately laid on his shoulder, singing Ulick’s music.  She had forgotten the music and Ulick himself, but her father, how near she was to him in all her sympathies and instincts!  Another moment, equally distinct, was when she had looked up and seen him in the choir loft conducting with calm skill.

He was coming to-night to hear her sing Elizabeth; that was the great event, for without his approval all the newspapers in the world were as nothing, at least to her.  She hummed a little to herself to see if she were in voice.  To convince him that she sang as well as mother was out of the question, but she might be able to convince him that she could do something that mother could not have done.  It was strange that she always thought of mother in connection with her voice; the other singers did not seem to matter; they might sing better or worse, but the sense of rivalry was not so intimate.  The carriage crossed Westminster Bridge, and as she looked