“Excuse me,” I said, “but probably you do not know her. I have just come from one of the houses yonder, where she is expected about noon, and I came out to try and meet her.” “Do you know her?” she asked. “No--or, rather, I hope so; I cannot tell till I see her.” “That’s curious. Have you ever met her?” “I am not sure. I hope I have. I cannot explain it to you just now, but the minute I put my eyes on Avis I shall be able to answer all your questions.” “But her name cannot be Avis.” “Oh, yes, it is. It is quite plain that you do not know her.” “I beg your pardon,” she returned, “there is but one person in all this country by the name of Avis.” “Then that is the very person I am trying to find.” “You have found her.” “Where?” “Right here. I am she.” I laughed outright and said: “Oh, no, you must be mistaken. I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the Avis I am looking for is young, younger than I am--evidently another person of your name, whom you have never met.” “How do you know she is young?” “Why,” I answered, “of course she is young.” And then, when I thought of it a moment, I remembered that no one had told me her age, but I added: “I know she is young, because I have heard her sing.” It was now my companion’s turn to laugh, but although her merriment was at my expense its expression, like all her actions, was exceedingly pleasing. The thought occurred to me that even the most cultured of the earth’s inhabitants have still much to learn in the realm of manners. “Oh, do you imagine,” she asked, in the midst of her laughing, “that you can tell one’s age in Mars from the quality of the voice? Does this Avis of yours sing well?” “Excellently well. Until I heard her I had supposed there was but one singer anywhere, in earth, sun, moon, or star, possessed of such a sweet and thrilling voice.” “And where, if I may ask, did you find that one?” “Oh, the doctor and I discovered her in our travels. I will tell you all about her when I have more time. Now will you excuse me while I continue my search for Avis?” “You have forgotten,” she answered, “what I told you. I am Avis.” “Not my Avis, the singer.” “Yes, the very same, and I can prove it.” “How?” She answered by turning half around, lifting her head, and sending out on the air one full, rich note. It poorly describes my emotions to say I was astonished. If I had been blind and dependent only on what I heard at that moment, I should have thrown myself at her feet and called her Mona. It brought back to me not only every expression of Mona’s marvelous voice, but also every feature and every grace which had formerly so bewitched me. If I had loved her passionately when we were together in the body, it would be difficult to characterize my feelings now that she was present only in memory. These sensations swept over me rapidly, but before I could utter a word my companion spoke again: