"A professional ?" whispered Adela to Arabella.

She wanted little invitation to exhibit her skill, at all events, for, at a word, the clear, bold, but finely nervous voice, was pealing to a brisker measure, that would have been joyous but for one fall it had, coming unexpectedly, without harshness, and winding up the song in a ringing melancholy.
After a few bars had been sung, Mr.Pericles was seen tapping his forehead perplexedly.

The moment it ended, he cried out, in a tone of vexed apology for strange ignorance: "But I know not it?
It is Italian--yes, I swear it is Italian! But--who then?
It is superbe! But I know not it!" "It is mine," said the young person.
"Your music, miss ?" "I mean, I composed it." "Permit me to say, Brava!" The ladies instantly petitioned to have it sung to them again; and whether or not they thought more of it, or less, now that the authorship was known to them, they were louder in their applause, which seemed to make the little person very happy.
"You are sure it pleases you ?" she exclaimed.
They were very sure it pleased them.

Somehow the ladies were growing gracious toward her, from having previously felt too humble, it may be.
She was girlish in her manner, and not imposing in her figure.

She would be a sweet mystery to talk about, they thought: but she had ceased to be quite the same mystery to them.
"I would go on singing to you," she said; "I could sing all night long: but my people at the farm will not keep supper for me, when it's late, and I shall have to go hungry to bed, if I wait." "Have you far to go ?" ventured Adela.
"Only to Wilson's farm; about ten minutes' walk through the wood," she answered unhesitatingly.
Arabella wished to know whether she came frequently to this lovely spot.
"When it does not rain, every evening," was the reply.
"You feel that the place inspires you ?" said Cornelia.
"I am obliged to come," she explained.