"Claire, dear," said a soft voice, "open your door; I want to come in."
It was Mrs. Ralston, and Claire advanced slowly and turned the key in the lock.
"I—I thought it was somebody else," she said, hypocritically. "Come in, Mrs. Ralston."
Thus invited, the lady entered. Without making a comment on the disturbed appearance of her young friend, she crossed to the window, and sitting down in a cosy dressing-chair, said: "Come directly here, young lady, and sit down on that ottoman."
Looking somewhat surprised, the girl obeyed.
"Claire, my child, I have a confession to make. I was in the library while you sang: 'When sparrows build.'"
The girl's cheek flushed and then paled; but she made no answer.
"And," pursued Mrs. Ralston, "I heard more than your song."
No reply.
"And more than your words!"