Her heart was warm towards him, because of that moment when she rebelled and was hard at soul.

She played her own accompaniment, and he was hidden from her by the piano as she sang--sang more touchingly and more humanly, if not more artistically, than she had ever done in her life.

The old art was not so perfect, perhaps, but there was in the voice all that she had learned and loved and suffered and hoped.

When she rose from the piano to a storm of applause, and saw the shining faces and tearful eyes round her, her own eyes filled with tears.

These people--most of them--had known and loved her since she was a child, and loved her still without envy or any taint.