"Besides," went on Tom Osby, "if we had an op'ry house, it wouldn't do no good. Why--I don't want to be imperlite, but I've heard that op'ry singers cost as high as ten dollars a night, or maybe more. We couldn't afford it. Onct we had a singin'-school teacher. Fellow by the name of Dawes come in there from Kansas, and he taught music. He used to sing a song called the 'Sword of Bunker Hill.' Used to have a daughter, and she sung, too. Her favoright song was 'Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.' They made quite a lot of money holdin' singin'-school. The gal, she got married and moved to Tularosa, and that broke up the singin'-school. There ain't been any kind of show at Heart's Desire for five years. But say, ma'am," he interrupted, "about that feller that had hold of you when I come in. Did he hurt you any?" "That's our leading tenor, Signer Peruchini! He's a great artist." She laughed, a ripple of soft, delicious laughter. "No, don't bother him. We'll need him out on the Coast. Don't you know, we are just here in the mountains for a little while." "Don't you like these mountings, ma'am?" asked Tom Osby, sinking back into his seat. "I always did. They always remind me of the Smokies, in Car'lina, back South." "You came from the South?" "Georgy, ma'am." "Georgia! So did I! We should be friends," she said, and, smiling, held out her hand. Tom Osby took it. "Ma'am," said he, gravely, "I'm right glad to see you. I've not been back home for a good many years. I've been all over." "Nor have I been home," said she, sadly. "I've been all over, too. But now, what brought you here? Tell me, did you want to see me?" "Yes!" Tom Osby answered simply. "I said that's why I come!" "You want me to come up to Heart's Desire to sing? Ah, I wish that were not impossible." "No, there's no one sent me," said Tom Osby. "Though, of course, the boys would do anything for you they could. What we want in Heart's Desire--why, sometimes I think it's nothing, and then, again, everything. Maybe we didn't want any music; and then, again, maybe we was just sick and pinin' for it, and didn't know it." She looked at him intently as he bent his head, his face troubled. "Listen," said he, at length, "I'll tell you all about it. Up at Vegas I heard a funny sort of singin' machine. It had voices in it. Ma'am, it had a Voice in it. It--it sung--" he choked now. "And some of the songs?" Strangely enough, he understood the question of her eyes. She flushed like a girl as he nodded gravely. "'Annie Laurie,'" he said. "I am very glad," said she, with a long breath. "It reconciles me to selling my art in that way. No, I'm very glad, quite outside of that." Tom Osby did not quite follow all her thoughts, but he went on. "It was 'Annie Laurie,'" said he. "I knew you sung it. Ma'am, I played her all the way from Vegas down." "But why did you come?" She was cruel; but a woman must have her toll. The renewed answer cost courage of Tom Osby.