She was about to decline singing it, but something told her to beware of false modesty, and she sang it through.
"I thank you!" he said, earnestly, when she had finished. "It has done me good. My mother used to sing that song, and I have never wanted to hear it from any other lips—until now."
Alexandrine glided along, as radiant as a humming-bird, her cheeks flushed, her black eyes sparkling, her voice sweet as a siren's.
"Sentimentalizing, I declare!" she exclaimed, gayly; "and singing that dreadful song, too! Ugh! it gives me the cold shudders to listen to it! How can you sing it, Margie, dear?"
"Miss Harrison sang it at my request, Miss Lee," said Trevlyn, gravely, "it is an old favorite of mine. Shall I not listen to you now?"
Alexandrine took the seat Margie had vacated, and glanced up at the two faces so near her.
"Why, Margie!" she said, "a moment ago I thought you were a rose, and now you are a lily! What is the matter?"
"Nothing, thank you," returned Margie, coldly. "I am weary, and will go home soon, I think."
Trevlyn looked at her with tender anxiety, evidently forgetful that he had requested Miss Lee to play.
"You are wearied," he said. "Shall I call your carriage?"