He walked on to the front door, and those in the sitting-room heard Olga run up the steps, singing with gusto that strain from Far Diavolo, ending, “Diavolo!  Diavolo!”

The “Cantata of Undine” had been composed by a gifted and fashionable amateur, and was performed by young people who belonged to le beau monde, consequently at an early hour on Friday evening, the house was crowded to witness the appearance of a constellation of amateurs, among whom Regina shone resplendent.  When after the opening chorus, she came first upon the stage, and stood watching the baton of the leader, a bum of admiration rose from the audience.

The costume was of some silvery gauze that hung like mist around her slender figure, and was encrusted here and there with the fragile white water-lilies that matched the spray which twined across her head, and strayed down among the unbound hair now floating free, far below her waist.

Very pale but calm, she began her solo, at first a little tremulously, but by degrees the rich voice gained its strength, asserted its spell, and nobly fulfilled the promise of Professor Hurtzsel, that New York should hear that night its finest contralto.

Startled by the burst of applause that succeeded her song, she looked for the first time at the audience, and saw her guardian’s tall conspicuous figure leaning against a column near the spot where Mrs. Carew sat.

Very grave, coolly critical, and quite preoccupied he certainly looked, and none would have dreamed that the slight motion of his lips meant “My Lily.”

Twice she sang alone, and finally in a duo which admirably displayed the compass and timbre of her very peculiar voice, and the floral hurricane that assailed her attested her complete triumph.

The unaffected simplicity of her bearing, as contrasted with the aplomb and artificial manner of the other young ladies who were performers,—­the angelic purity and delicacy of the sweet girlish face, with a lingering trace of sadness in the superb eyes, which only deepened their velvet violet,—­excited the earnest interest of all present, and many curious inquiries ran through the audience.

At the close of the Cantata, Mrs. Palma drew Regina away from the strangers who pressed forward to offer their congratulations, and, throwing a fur cloak around her, kissed her cheek.

It was the first caress the stately woman had ever bestowed, and as the girl looked up, gratified and astonished, the former said: 

“You sang delightfully, my dear, and we are more than satisfied, quite proud.  Your voice was as even and smooth as a piece of cream-coloured Persian satin.  No, Mrs. Brompton, not to-night.  Pardon me, Professor, but I must hurry her away, for Mrs. Carew and I have an engagement at Mrs. Quimbey’s.  I shall be obliged to take our ‘Undine’ home, and then return for my fair friend, who is as usual surrounded, and inextricable just now.”