“I did not know anything could taste quite so good!” Evadne said when she had finished, “you must be a wonderful cook.”

Dyce laughed, well pleased.  “When de Lord gives us everything in perfecshun, ‘specs it would be terrible shifles’ of me ter spoil it in de cookin’, Miss ’Vadney.”

“The Lord,” repeated Evadne.  “You know him too, then?  You must, if you live with Pompey.”

Dyce’s face grew luminous.  “He is my joy!” she said softly.

“And does he make you happy all the time?” asked the girl wistfully.  “You seem to have to work as hard as Pompey.  What is it makes you so glad?”

“Laws, honey, how kin I help bein’ glad?  De chile o’ de King, on de way ter my Father’s palace.  Ain’t dat enuff ’cashun ter keep a poor cullered woman rejoicin’ all de day long?  I’se so happy I’se a singin’ all de time over my work, an’ in de street; it don’t matter where I be.”

“But you can’t sing in the streets, Dyce!”

“Laws, chile, don’t yer know de heart kin sing when de lips is silent?  It’s de heart songs dat de King tinks de most of, but when de heart gits too full, den de lips hez ter do deir share.”

“But suppose you were to lose your eyesight, or Pompey got sick, or——­”

Dyce gave one of her soft laughs.  “Laws, honey, I never supposes.  De Lord’s got no use fer a lot o’ supposin’ chillen who’s allers frettin’ demselves sick fer fear Satan’ll git de upper han’.  De Lord’s reignin’, dat’s enuff fer me.  I ‘low he’ll take care o’ me in de best way.”

Evadne looked again at the exquisitely laundered dresses.  “Why do you work so hard?” she asked.  “Doesn’t Pompey get enough to live on?”

“Oh, yes, honey; de Jedge gives good wages; but yer see, we wants to do so much fer Jesus dat de wages don’t hold out.”

“So much for Jesus!”

“Why, yes, Missy.  He says ef we loves him we’ll do what he tells us, an’ he’s tol’ us ter feed de hungry, an’ clothe de naked, an’ go preach de gospel.  So, when we cum ter talk it ober, it seem drefful shifles’ in me ter be doin’ nothin’ when de Lord worked night an’ day, so I begun ter take in laundry work an’ now we hev more money ter spen’ on de Lord.  But we never hez enuff.  De worl’s so full o’ perishin’ souls an’ starvin’ bodies.  I tells Pompey I never wanted ter be rich till I began ter do de King’s bizniss.  It’s drefful comfortin’ work, Miss ’Vadney.”

* * * * *

The chill March wind blew fiercely along the streets of Marlborough one afternoon and Evadne shivered.  She had been standing for an hour wedged tightly against the doors of the Opera House by an impatient crowd which swayed hither and thither in a fruitless effort to force an entrance.  It was Signor Ferice’s farewell to America and it was his whim to make his last concert a popular one, with no seats reserved.  Every nerve in her body seemed strained to its utmost tension and her head was in a whirl.  She turned