McIvor, leaning on his elbow, revelling in the flooding sounds, frowned. He shook his head. “It’s a pity,” he murmured, and then shouted, “Henry--Henry!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. Henry Barron, reading inside, dropped his magazine and dashed through the open door. “What in the name of heaven’s the matter? You’re not ill?” McIvor did not smile. “Ill--no. Who’s that singing?” “Oh!” Barron looked relieved. “Now see here, old man--you’re there to rest, not to get excited. Dr. Thomas said you were to do no talking or even thinking for two hours.” “Dr. Thomas go to the devil. That voice--who is it?” “Little Honor Mannering, next door. It’s a fine voice--yet----” “Exactly,” McIvor caught him up. “Something lacking. But a great music machine, the throat that’s doing that peaches and cream. I want her to sing for me. I want to see what’s the trouble--why that voice isn’t a miracle. Can you get her to----” Barron was looking into the sunlight of his drive. “Here she comes,” he said. The white, tall, thin figure was moving, facile of movement as the voice, up the broad gravel; the shallow basket, rioting color, swept casually back and forth in the girl’s hand. Barron went down the steps. “For Mr. McIvor,” she called, swinging the mass of reds and pinks at him as she came. “I wish they were better. They’re all we have, but they’re only common roses.” “The sweetest kind,” said Barron, and the girl stood gazing at him, her eyes shining with the romance of bringing flowers to a hero. “When’s he coming?” she demanded. “I’m going to stand in our garden and sing and sing till he asks me to do ‘Carmen’ for him. Do tell him to, Mr. Barron. When’s he coming?” “He’s here,” some one spoke from the gallery, back of the flower-boxes. The girl stood rooted. “And ‘Carmen’ has been sung by worse voices. Seldom better.” “Oh,” groaned Barron, “he ought not to be stirred up; come and see him, then, but don’t stay over a minute.” The girl came, breathless, shy a bit, but blissful. “To-morrow morning, then, you’ll sing for him,” said Barron three minutes later. “And now go away, my dear, for he mustn’t get tired.” In the Barron drawing-room, while McIvor’s secretary played an accompaniment, the girl stood next morning and sang. McIvor lay outside among his pillows and stared at the tossing pink veil clothing the broken lattice. The girl sang as confidently as any bird in a tree, taking the difficult changes and the trying high notes without any effort. Her voice was astonishing in its power. McIvor looked at her as she came smiling through the door. “You’d do for a church organ,” he said. “Where does all that noise come from, you wisp of a child? Turn sideways.” She whirled, laughing. “I see. You fooled me. You’ve got the deep chest of a prima donna. Healthy, aren’t you?” She nodded. “As strong as my brother. Never ill since measles. I can run up-hill and not get winded.” “You’re fit,” said McIvor. The girl looked at him, waited.