She had begun her song feebly and uncertainly; but when she really heard the sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of melody that the old walls had not known for centuries, there came upon her an intoxication of enjoyment.

It was that pure enjoyment which all true artists--be they singers, painters, poets--understand, and they only-- the delight in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy or admiration of others; and oh how far removed from any mean vanity or love of praise.
Christian was happy--happy as a lark in the air, just to hear--and make-- the sound of her own singing.

Her face brightened; her figure, as she stood leaning against the mantel-piece assumed a new grace and dignity.

She was beautiful--absolutely beautiful and her husband saw it.
Was it fancy if, glancing at her, Dr.Grey half sighed?
Only for a moment; then he said cheerily: "Arthur was right.

Children, tell your mother that she is the best singer we ever heard in all our lives." "That she is.