"Aunt Lizzie says I'm superficial," Mavis explained. "I heard her tell Uncle John so. But he said no, I was not. Indeed, I was not trying to listen," she proceeded quickly. "I was coming downstairs, and they were in the hall. I didn't know they were talking about me. Then it's nothing very bad if one is superficial, Mr. Moseley?" "No," he answered, with an involuntary smile; "and it's nothing for you to trouble about. But I agree with your uncle. I think, perhaps, your aunt is mistaken; she probably does not understand you, and you evidently do not understand her. No doubt you will get to know each other better by-and-by. I am coming to see your aunt about you one day soon." "About me?" Mavis exclaimed, questioningly. "Yes. I am going to get up a concert—not just yet, during Christmas week—and invite all the villagers to attend. It will be held in the schoolroom, and I think you can help me, if your aunt will permit it." "I!" cried the little girl in amazement. "What can I do?" "You can sing. I have heard you on several occasions when you have been with your cousins in the woods, though you have not known I have been listening. Once I heard you sing a most beautiful version of the twenty-third psalm, and that is what I should like you to sing at my concert." "Oh, Mr. Moseley, I don't think I could—before a lot of strange people!" "Not if it gave them pleasure?" he inquired, with a smile. "I should be so nervous," faltered the little girl. "Perhaps, at first, but you would very soon get over that." "But I have never learnt to sing properly—not with music, I mean. I couldn't sing with a piano; it would put me out." "I should like you to sing without an accompaniment, as you have been accustomed. God has given you a groat gift, my dear, don't you think He expects you to use it for the benefit of others?" "Do you think that?" Mavis asked earnestly. "Certainly I do. The poet Longfellow says that God sent His singers upon earth—" "'That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again.'" "Those lines recurred to my memory when I heard you sing that beautiful, comforting psalm." Mavis' face broke into a sudden, radiant smile. In imagination, she heard Miss Dawson's well-remembered voice saying: "You have given me comfort, and reminded me that I am not setting out on a long journey without support from God." She knew the sick girl had referred to the words she had previously sung— "The Lord is only my support, and He that doth me feed; How can I then lack anything whereof I stand in need?" Had God indeed given her a great gift, expecting her to use it for the benefit of others? She had never thought of her voice in that light before; she had sung instinctively, like the bird after which she had been named. "Mr. Moseley, I will sing at your concert gladly, if Aunt Lizzie will let me," she said, at length.