“Well, they ain’t but two kin’s, quality an’ po’ white trash, an’ I’ll be boun’ you don’t neber take up wid any ob dat kin’, so you an’ yo’ ma ‘n’ pa mought jes’ as well stay in one place.” While the girls were up in Molly’s room, which Judy was to share, getting ready for a belated dinner, they heard the sound of a piano, cracked but sweet, like the notes of an old spinnet, then a male voice, wonderful in its power and intensity, and at the same time so sweet and full of feeling that Judy, ever emotional where art was concerned, felt her eyes filling. “Shed no tear, oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! Oh, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root’s white core. Dry your eyes, oh, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies, Shed no tear. “Overhead—look overhead ’Mong the blossoms white and red. Look up, look up! I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! ’tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man’s ill. Shed no tear, oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly. Adieu, I vanish in the heaven’s blue, Adieu, adieu!” “Oh, Molly, Molly, who is that?” cried Judy, weeping copiously, in spite of the repeated request of the singer to “shed no tear.” “Why, that is Crit. Isn’t his voice wonderful?” “Do you really mean it is Mr. Rutledge? I thought he was dumb, and have been feeling so sorry for Mildred.” “Dumb, indeed! He has the most beautiful voice in Kentucky, and can make such an eloquent speech when roused that we have been afraid he would go into politics. But, so far as passing the time of day is concerned, and the little chit-chat that fills up life, he is indeed as dumb as a fish. When he was a little boy he stammered and got into the habit of expressing his feelings in silence, and he can still do it. He had a teacher who cured him of stammering, but nothing will ever cure him of silence, unless he has something important to say, and then nothing can stop him. Mother tells of a man who stammered in talking but not in singing. One day he was passing a friend’s house, and saw that the roof was in a blaze, the inmates perfectly unconscious of the conflagration. He rushed in, tried to speak, could only stutter, and then in desperation burst into song. To the tune of ‘The Campbells Are Coming,’ he sang, ‘Your house is on fire, tra-la, tra-la!’ Kent declares that Crit proposed to Milly in song, but Milly herself is dumb about how that came about.” “Well, anyhow, I have never heard such scintillating silence as his, and I think that Milly ought to be a very proud and happy girl.” CHAPTER III.—WEDDING PREPARATIONS AND CONFIDENCES.