She sighed, and began to strum softly on the guitar some one had offered for her accompaniments.
Then she sang, and the tremor in her voice made it all the sweeter. They hung spellbound on the liquid notes sweet as the nightingale.
“It is another Melba!” they cried in delight, but some were hushed into silence, their very heartstrings stirred by the divine strains.
When she stopped at last, all were clamorous for more, but she pleaded weariness.
A low voice murmured in her ear:
“Just one more, please—the song you sang for your father the night I first saw you.”
“I must have sung several,” she replied, and he answered:
“‘Love, I will love you ever!’”
The significant earnestness of the tone and words made her heart throb so quickly that the blood mantled her cheek with crimson. She made no answer, just swept the strings and sang the sweet old song, while his heart kept echoing the tender refrain:
“Love, I will love you ever,