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 sure, but natural and self-possessed as if she had been singing in her own parlor.

Somebody called for Gordigiani's O Santissima Vergine,—a favorite song of "la Canti." The singer rose again to her feet. The low, pulsing accompaniment sounded on the strings, and presently the voice began, with a softly vibrating tone, different from the resonant quality which had first attracted the listeners.

"O Santissima Vergine Maria!"

"I told you it was a trained voice," Uncle Dan heard someone say in a neighboring gondola. "I believe she's a stage singer. Just listen to that!"

"Hush, don't talk!" the answer came. "It's the sweetest thing I ever heard."

And in truth a delicate, penetrating pathos had come into the fresh young voice, pleading so melodiously for the life of "mio ben."

"O Maria, O Maria," was the artless supplication; "I vow to give to thee the ring my mother bought for me four years ago, and the coral necklace, tanto bello!"