But she did not give her "brogue" the inimitable twist she had given it in the practices, and her readings lacked their usual fire and appeal.

As she stood before the audience she saw one face only--that of the handsome, dark-haired lad sitting beside her mother--and she saw that same face in the trenches--saw it lying cold and dead under the stars--saw it pining in prison--saw the light of its eyes blotted out--saw a hundred horrible things as she stood there on the beflagged platform of the Glen hall with her own face whiter than the milky crab-blossoms in her hair.

Between her numbers she walked restlessly up and down the little dressing-room.

Would the concert never end! It ended at last.

Olive Kirk rushed up and told her exultantly that they had made a hundred dollars.