"Oh, the poor get along well enough," she said, with an accent of
indifference or contempt. "They have more than they deserve."

But the singer was again leaning toward the waiting figure outside,
seeing which the old man said as if in apology:

"That is why I was asking for help, madam; people are generous at
Christmas. But I have known better times; I do not like to beg."

The prima donna was not rich. She supported her own old father and
mother, and was educating her brother for a grand tenor. With one of
those quick impulses born of heaven, she ordered the driver to descend
from his box and throw open the carriage. When the roof parted and the
sunshine came flooding down upon her, the singer faced the crowd that
had been steadily gathering for ten minutes, eager to see the Signora
Cavada, whose voice was the most jealously guarded jewel of her store.
For she had been recognized by a chance passer-by.

Suddenly there stole on the air a divine strain that caused a hush as
by magic to fall upon the restless groups. Louder, sweeter, stronger,
more entrancing it rose, then sunk to the whispering cadence of a sigh.
The old man's hands were crossed before him, and tears poured down his
withered cheeks. Ere the charmed listeners realized that the voice had
ceased, the singer gave the poor supplicant a coin, and waving him
toward the crowd, which was increasing every moment, said,--

"Tell them I will sing again."

The old man went from one to another till the worn hat grew so heavy
that he had to carry it in his arms. Money for his needs, money for his