overwhelming enthusiasm; but never, to my mind, has she sung so finely as on that night. She was profoundly moved, she had in Alresca the ideal listener, and she sang with the magic power of a goddess. It was the summit of her career.

“There is none like you,” Alresca said, and the praise of Alresca brought the crimson to her cheek. He was probably the one person living who had the right to praise her, for an artist can only be properly estimated by his equals.

“Come to me, Rosa,” he murmured, as he took her hand in his and kissed it. “You are in exquisite voice to-night,” he said.

“Am I?”

“Yes. You have been excited; and I notice that you always sing best under excitement.”