She was the daughter of his drunken overseer, a child in years, yet she showed neither embarrassment nor eagerness; indeed, she conveyed to him the impression that it was profoundly equal to her whether he went or stayed.

“Tell me,” he said, “before you sing, where have you studied?”

“I?” she laughed, but the laugh was not all mirthful.  “In Paris, in London, in Rome, in New York.”  There was bitterness in her tone.  “I am a gamin of the world, monsieur.”

“Tell me,” he repeated, insistently.

She made no response, but stood, with her profile toward him, looking into the sunset.

“Won’t you tell me?” he asked again, his tone more intimate than before.

“Ah, why should I?” And then, with a sudden veering:  “After all, there is little to tell.  I was born in Paris of poor—­but Irish—­parents.”  She smiled as she spoke.  “My mother was a great singer, whose name I will not call.  She married my father; left him and me.  I do not remember her.  Since her death my father has been a spent man.  We have wandered from place to place.  When he found work I was sent to some convent near by.  The Sisters have taught me.  For three months I studied with Barili.  I have sung in the churches.  Finally, Mr. McDermott, on the next plantation, met us in New York, recommended my father for this work, and we came here.”

She turned from him as she ended the telling.  “What shall I sing?” she asked.

“‘The Serenade.’”

“Schubert’s?”

“There is but one.”

“It is difficult without the accompaniments but I will try: 

    “’All the stars keep watch in heaven
      While I sing to thee,
    And the night for love was given—­
      Darling, come to me—­
      Darling, come to me!’”

She ended, her hands clasped before her, her lithe figure, by God-given instinct for song, leaned forward, and Francis Ravenel was conscious that the passion in the voice had nothing to do with his presence; that it was the music alone of which she thought, and for the first time in his life he touched the edge of the knowledge that a great gift sets its owner as a thing apart.

“Sometime,” he said, “when you have become famous, and all the world is singing your praises, I shall say, ’Once she sang for me alone, at twilight, under the beeches, in a far land,’ and the people will take off their hats to me, as to one who has had much honor.”

He smiled as he spoke.  It was the smile or the praise of the song, or a cause too subtle to name, that changed her.  She had already seemed an indifferent woman, a great artist, a careless Bohemienne in her speech; but for the next change he was unprepared:  it was a pleading child with wistful eyes who seated herself beside him, not remotely through any self-consciousness, but near to him, where speech could be conveniently exchanged.