It was almost three hours before they finished and came down the west trail for their rest and lunch. McLean walked ahead, keeping sharp watch on the trail and clearing it of fallen limbs from overhanging trees. He sent a big piece of bark flying into the swale, and then stopped short and stared at the trail. The Bird Woman bent forward. Together they studied that imprint of the Angel's foot. At last their eyes met, the Bird Woman's filled with astonishment, and McLean's humid with pity. Neither said a word, but they knew. McLean entered the swale and hunted up the bark. He replaced it, and the Bird Woman carefully stepped over. As they reached the bushes at the entrance, the voice of the Angel stopped them, for it was commanding and filled with much impatience. “Freckles James Ross McLean!” she was saying. “You fill me with dark-blue despair! You're singing as if your voice were glass and might break at any minute. Why don't you sing as you did a week ago? Answer me that, please.” Freckles smiled confusedly at the Angel, who sat on one of his fancy seats, playing his accompaniment on her banjo. “You are a fraud,” she said. “Here you went last week and led me to think that there was the making of a great singer in you, and now you are singing--do you know how badly you are singing?” “Yis,” said Freckles meekly. “I'm thinking I'm too happy to be singing well today. The music don't come right only when I'm lonesome and sad. The world's for being all sunshine at prisint, for among you and Mr. McLean and the Bird Woman I'm after being THAT happy that I can't keep me thoughts on me notes. It's more than sorry I am to be disappointing you. Play it over, and I'll be beginning again, and this time I'll hold hard.” “Well,” said the Angel disgustedly, “it seems to me that if I had all the things to be proud of that you have, I'd lift up my head and sing!” “And what is it I've to be proud of, ma'am?” politely inquired Freckles.