Her face was
beautiful rather than lovely. Its pallor, its strong
lines, the melancholy intensity of the eyes, made her
seem more the woman fully developed, less, far less, the
maturing girl.
``Nonsense!'' scolded Jennings. ``But no more
colds like that. They impair the quality of the voice.''
``I have no voice,'' said the girl. ``I see the truth.''
Jennings was inwardly cursing his insane temper.
In about the kindliest tone he had ever used with her,
he said: ``My dear Miss Stevens, you are in no
condition to judge to-day. Come back to-morrow. Do
something for that cold to-night. Clear out the throat
--and come back to-morrow. You will see.''
``Yes, I know those tricks,'' said she, with a sad little
smile. ``You can make a crow seem to sing. But you
told me the truth.''
``To-morrow,'' he cried pleasantly, giving her an
encouraging pat on the shoulder. He knew the folly of
talking too much, the danger of confirming her fears by
pretending to make light of them. ``A good sleep, and
to-morrow things will look brighter.
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