“‘Yes, ma’am.’
“‘You’re warm now. Go and play something. Can you sing?’
“‘Yes, ma’am.’
“‘Then sing too; and look here, Miss—Miss—Miss—’
“I was about to tell her my name, but remembering the last rebuff, I was silent.
“‘Now, look here, my good young lady, how am I to remember your dreadful name? What is it?’
“‘Laurie, ma’am,’ I replied.
“‘Of course it is: I remember it quite well. Now go and play and sing something; and mind, I don’t want my ears deafened with fireworks, and the drums split with parrot-shriek bravuras. Sing something sweet and simple and old-fashioned—if you can,’ she added, ungraciously.
“I crossed the room and sat down to the magnificent piano, and for the next five minutes I seemed to be far away, down in the old home, as I forgot where I was, in singing my poor dead father’s favourite old ballad, ‘Robin Adair;’ while, as I finished, I had hard work to keep back the tears.