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“Oh, yes.” Little Joyce was quite unembarrassed and perfectly willing to do anything she could for this wonderful woman who had brought that look to Denise’s face. “I will sing as well as I can for you. Of course, I can’t sing very well and I don’t know anything but hymns. I always sing hymns for Denise, although she is a Catholic and the hymns are Protestant. But her priest told her it was all right, because all music was of God. Denise’s priest is a very nice man, and I like him. He thought my little black doll–your little black doll–was splendid. I’ll sing ‘Lead, Kindly Light.’ That is Denise’s favourite hymn.”

Then Little Joyce, slipping her hand into Denise’s, began to sing. At the first note Madame Laurin, who had been gazing out of the window with a rather listless smile, turned quickly and looked at Little Joyce with amazed eyes. Delight followed amazement, and when Little Joyce had finished, the great Madame rose impulsively, her face and eyes glowing, stepped swiftly to Little Joyce and took the thin dark face between her gemmed hands.

“Child, do you know what a wonderful voice you have–what a marvellous voice? It is–it is–I never heard such a voice in a child of your age. Mine was nothing to it–nothing at all. You will be a great singer some day–far greater than I–yes. But you must have the training. Where are your parents? I must see them.”

“I have no parents,” said the bewildered Little Joyce. “I belong to Grandmother Marshall, and she is out driving.”

“Then I shall wait until your Grandmother Marshall comes home from her drive,” said Madame Laurin decidedly.

Half an hour later a very much surprised old lady was listening to Madame Laurin’s enthusiastic statements.

“How is it I have never heard you sing, if you can sing so well?” asked Grandmother Marshall, looking at Little Joyce with something in her eyes that had never been in them before–as Little Joyce instantly felt to the core of her sensitive soul. But Little Joyce hung her head. It had never occurred to her to sing in Grandmother Marshall’s presence.

“This child must be trained by-and-by,” said Madame Laurin. “If you cannot afford it, Mrs. Marshall, I will see to it. Such a voice must not be wasted.”

“Thank you, Madame Laurin,” said Grandmother Marshall with a gracious dignity, “but I am quite able to give my granddaughter all the necessary advantages for the development of her gift. And I thank you very much for telling me of it.”

Madame Laurin bent and kissed Little Joyce’s brown cheek.

“Little gypsy, good-by. But come every day to this hotel to see me. And next summer I shall be back. I like you–because some day you will be a great singer and because today you are a loving, unselfish baby.”

“You have forgotten the little black doll, Madame,” said Little Joyce gravely.

Madame threw up her hands, laughing. “No, no, I shall not take your little black doll of the four thousand years. Keep it for a mascot. A great singer always needs a mascot. But do not, I command you, take it out of the box till I am gone, for if I were to see it again, I might not be able to resist the temptation. Some day I shall show you my dolls, but there is not such a gem among them.”

When Madame Laurin had gone, Grandmother Marshall looked at Little Joyce.

“Come to my room, Joyce. I want to see if we cannot find a more becoming way of arranging your hair. It has grown so thick and long. I had no idea how thick and long. Yes, we must certainly find a better way than that stiff braid. Come!”

Little Joyce, taking Grandmother Marshall’s extended hand, felt very happy. She realized that this strange, stately old lady, who never liked little girls unless they were pretty or graceful or clever, was beginning to love her at last.