They went up to their rooms. The scent of roses and honeysuckle was wafted into their windows. Ellen went to hers and knelt down to look up at the quiet stars. “Dear Mother, dear Father,” she murmured, “I hope that you can see me, and that you know how good a home I have. It will comfort you to know.” Then suddenly upon the balmy air of the June night came the sound of music near, very near. Jeremy Todd was playing on his violin directly under the windows. Ellen ran to her cousin’s room. “Cousin Rindy, Cousin Rindy,” she whispered, “do you hear? It is Mr. Todd, and he is serenading you.” “Now isn’t that just like Jeremy Todd to do a sentimental thing like that? The end of a perfect day, I suppose he’d call it.” “But isn’t that just what it is?” said Ellen. “Well, yes, I suppose it is; it’s the end, anyway.” She did not object, however, to kneeling down with Ellen by the open window into which the light from a half moon streamed. “Isn’t it lovely?” sighed Ellen, as Jeremy, with a high, fine, long-drawn note, finished what he was playing. Then he began the air of one of the Schumann songs. Ellen leaned out to toss a rose to the serenader. “Troubadour, troubadour,” she called, “I’m coming down.” “Why in the world do you want to do that?” inquired Miss Rindy. “I’ll show you when I get down there. Now please do stay just where you are. I won’t be gone very long. Please stay, Cousin Rindy.” And Miss Rindy stayed. Ellen ran out upon the moonlit grass plot where intricate shadows were swaying. She said something in a low tone to Jeremy, and he tuned his violin anew. Then upon the quiet night arose Ellen’s sweet, fresh voice in the song her mother loved, Schumann’s “Moonlight.” “That was well done,” said Mr. Todd as the last note died away. “When you are a little older, your voice should be cultivated, Ellen.” Ellen shook her head. “We can’t talk about that now. I think Cousin Rindy has had a perfectly fine birthday, don’t you, Mr. Todd? And it was so dear of you to finish it up with the lovely music, like a good-night blessing, wasn’t it? I am sure Cousin Rindy enjoyed it, though she may not say so, and I’m not quite sure that she would understand ‘Moonlight.’ I felt that I must sing it—for Mother. On this lovely night she seems so near.” “I think she is,” responded Mr. Todd. “The music was for you, Ellen, as much as for Miss Rindy.” “I knew that as soon as you began. I must go in. Cousin Rindy will think I am crazy to stay out so long. Good-night, and thank you, thank you, thank you for the serenade.” She ran in to find Miss Rindy had arisen from her knees and was taking down her hair and preparing for bed. “Did you ever have a serenade before?” asked Ellen. “How did you like it?” “Oh, pretty well. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Jeremy scraping on his fiddle. You’ve got a right pretty voice, Ellen, but I can’t say there was much tune to the thing you sang. What was it?”