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N one of the prettiest corners of Kensington is a quiet spot known as The Boltons. No happier or more suggestive name could have been found for it than that bestowed by the famous singer's little boy. He calls it "Our Village," and you have only to look out from the windows of any of the surrounding houses, there, in the midst of wealth of green and trees, is the church; whilst there is nothing to disturb the stillness save the singing of the birds, which are piping here, there, and everywhere. In a large corner house, with great balconies which seem to suggest a trysting-place for Romeo and Juliet, resides Mrs. Ernest Gye, familiarly known the wide world over as Madame Albani. It is an attractive spot to the passer-by, and a delighted open-air audience may often be found there in the morning, when the sounds of the artiste's voice are to be heard, practising the opera for the night, in the drawing-room.

I could not have called at a more opportune time. It was the afternoon following her last appearance at Covent Garden this season, and the place was a veritable garden of flowers—floral rewards bestowed upon the singer the previous night for her dramatic rendering of Desdemona in "Otello." Wherever the eye looked there were flowers—roses were springing out of every nook and corner, huge posies and heavy baskets, whilst leaning negligently against the wall of the drawing-room was a great A composed of white sweet-peas, and the tiny vases scattered about were brimming over with the blossoms. They had to be conveyed home in a cab last night, for the carriage was already full of them.

Madame Albani's talents have won for her a precious collection of souvenirs, and the house is a store for them. After passing through the entrance hall, where a moment before her clever dog "Chat" has kindly obliged by sitting for his picture, we come, on the immediate right, to Mr. Gye's study. On his table are set out homely photos of himself, his wife, and their only child, Ernest; and over the fireplace is a magnificent stag's head, a reminiscence of Scotland. In a niche in the hall by the window is a life-size statue of their son, by Prince Victor of Hohenlohe. The little fellow is in sailor's costume, and playing with a toy railway engine, his one great amusement when three or four years of age, when he could boast of a collection of engines and tenders which would make any child in the land pardonably envious. It is in the drawing-room where one realises to what extent Madame Albani's talents have been acknowledged, so far as the bestowal of kindly gifts conveys appreciation. The apartment is richly draped, and its walls are an agreeable