Thyrza found herself preparing, in spite of herself.  She trembled violently, and her heart beat with a strange pain.  She heard the chairman shout her name; the sound made her face burn.

‘Oh, what shall I sing?’ she whispered distractedly to Totty, whilst all eyes were turned to regard her.

‘Sing “A Penny for your thoughts."’

It was the one song she knew of her father’s making, a half-mirthful, half-pathetic little piece in the form of a dialogue between husband and wife, a true expression of the life of working folk, which only a man who was more than half a poet could have shaped.

The seedy youth at the piano was equal to any demand for accompaniment; Totty hummed the air to him, and he had his chords ready without delay.

Thyrza raised her face and began to sing.  Yes, it was different enough from anything that had come before; her pure sweet tones touched the hearers profoundly; not a foot stirred.  At the second verse she had grown in confidence, and rose more boldly to the upper notes.  At the end she was singing her best—­better than she had ever sung at home, better than she thought she could sing.  The applause that followed was tumultuous.  By this time much beer had been consumed; the audience was in a mood for enjoying good things.

‘That’s something like, old girl!’ cried Totty, clapping her on the back.  ’Have a drink out of my glass.  It’s only ginger-beer; it can’t hurt you.  This is jolly!  Ain’t it a lark to be alive?’

The pale-faced girl who had sung of May-blossoms looked across the table with eyes in which jealousy strove against admiration.  There were remarks aside between the men with regard to Thyrza’s personal appearance.

She must sing again.  They were not going to be left with hungry ears after a song like that.  Thyrza still suffered from the sense that she was doing wrong, but the praise was so sweet to her; sweeter, she thought, than anything she had ever known.  She longed to repeat her triumph.

Totty named another song; the faint resistance was overcome, and again the room hushed itself, every hearer spellbound.  It was a voice well worthy of cultivation, excellent in compass, with rare sweet power.  Again the rapturous applause, and again the demand for more.  Another! she should not refuse them.  Only one more and they would be content.  And a third time she sang; a third time was borne upwards on clamour.

‘Totty, I must go,’ she whispered.  ‘What’s the time?’

‘It’s only just after ten,’ was the reply.  ‘You’ll soon run home.’

‘After ten?  Oh, I must go at once!’

She left her place, and as quickly as possible made her way through the crowd.  Just at the door she saw a face that she recognised, but a feeling of faintness was creeping upon her, and she could think of nothing but the desire to breathe fresh air.  Already she was on the stairs, but her strength suddenly failed; she felt herself falling, felt herself strongly seized, then lost consciousness.