He sang it through—the sad, hopeless longing of a weary heart. “_It may be for years, and it may be forever._” I glanced at the barber, and saw him still with the open razor and the brush in his hands, while the others stood about with heads bowed as they listened. And at the end of the song my friend started another: “Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back, Aroon, to the land of thy birth. Come with the shamrocks of springtime, mavourneen, And its Killarney shall ring with thy mirth!” I have often thought that to another deaf man we would have presented a most ridiculous spectacle. By this time I had discovered that my musical friend was by no means a prohibitionist; the breath which carried the sweet sound had a flavor all its own. He had been tarrying with other spirits besides the collection under my overcoat. I, still with the thick smear of lather, diligently held the “tail-piece” to my ear; the barber was scowling to hide his emotion, and with the open razor he looked like a pirate. Yet I think there has never been such music since the glorious night long ago when the angels’ song was heard by men. You will smile at the extravagant language of a deaf man who has no other music for comparison. Yet I think you never heard anything like this. No doubt you have listened at the opera or at church while some golden-voiced singer poured out marvelous melody. Ah, it could not compare With the soft, tender voice which came to my dull ears in that dim-lighted barber shop. For this man out of the troubles of his own life put all the sorrow, all the yearning, all the tender hopelessness of an imaginative race into its native songs. And with this came the glow of feeling that he was doing a kindly deed for an unfortunate person. As he sang I saw it all; the sunshine splintering on the white cliffs, the sparkle of the little streams, the grassy meadows, the heavenly blue sky over all. And there was the heavy, muttering ocean with the glitter of the sun on its face. I thought of the thousands who had bravely passed over it seeking a distant home, but loyal in their hearts to the old green hills. “Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen!” We were carried back, and for the moment all the troubles and afflictions were forgotten. I saw tears in the eyes of the barber. The others shuffled their feet, and one found it necessary to blow his nose. And then—the song ended, and I was back on earth with only the old dull roaring in my ears, and a mass of lather on my face. I thought the Irishman turned sadly away. “I cannot tell you, my friend, how much that means to me. It seems to me the most beautiful human music I ever heard. What can I do to repay you?” “Nothing—it was only a neighborly deed, what any man should do with his poor gift. You cannot pay me. ’Tis only from love of the music and of helping that I did it.” “But who are you—with such a voice?”