“I have a thousand things to ask you,” I told her. “What has made this wonderful change in your life? How is it that I don’t see your father—”
Her face instantly saddened; her hand trembled as she laid it on my arm to silence me.
“Don’t speak of him now,” she said, “or you will unnerve me. Come to me to-morrow when the stage will not be waiting; Annette will give you my address.” She opened the door to go out, and returned. “Will you think me very unreasonable if I ask you not to make one of my audience to-night? You have reminded me of the dear old days that can never come again. If I feel that I am singing to you —” She left me to understand the rest, and turned away again to the door. As I followed her out, to say good-by, she drew from her bosom the little brooch which had been my pa
