But after all, what did it matter? Some young fool or other run down by an automobile. Some boy shot at the dance hall, over some girl. Whoever it was wouldn’t want _them_. The only person on Isle Brevelle who would want a singing woman was Toni, old Toni Philbert, who for nearly twenty years, had had one foot in the grave. Looked like he meant to hang on to the earth forever and ever, amen. He had always been like that, a lover of life and living. Heylaw! What a lad old Toni used to be!... What a way with the girls! * * * * * It was on a sultry August day that Toni Philbert had a stroke. Henriette’s grandson came in and told her about it. “I hear tell down at the store that Toni is mighty low. He can’t last very long, they tell me.” Henriette was excited. So Toni was sick, very low! She gulped down some coffee and got her stick, and set out for Josephine’s house, walking down in the ditch. She was so heavy with news she could scarcely breathe. So Toni was on his deathbed.... Thoughts of Toni came to her from the long-ago years.... The August sun was veiled in a mist from the river. Already the cottonwoods were changing colour, and the goldenrod was in bloom. Henriette crowded close into the dusty bushes as an automobile flashed past above her on the highroad. So Toni was dying! Well, sometimes she might forget how many grandchildren she had; sometimes she forgot her age, or what year it was, this and that. But she would never forget the time that Toni had kissed her, nor the dress she had worn when he did it, long, long ago. Little enough she had thought of death or singing for death in those days, sitting under the trees by the river in a pink-sprigged challis. What a gallant, insolent lad he had been, old Toni! Of course, he had kissed every girl on the island. But hers was a sort of a special kiss, she had always felt. She was a slim, pretty, green-eyed thing, just turned seventeen.... Old Henriette groped along, catching against the bushes and the tumbleweeds at her feet. That was in 1852, long ’fore the war.... Old Henriette had warts on her cheeks. “Frogs put ’em there,” she sometimes croaked to curious children. “Toadfrogs, out in the swamp.” But in those days, when Toni had kissed her, her cheeks were yellow and smooth. Toni had led her down to the river to look at herself. “A minute ago, Henriette, your face was a yellow lily. And now--look!--it’s a rose!” Ah, well, poor Toni was dying! Which one would he want to sing for him, herself or old Josephine? Henriette wondered if Josephine had had any “news.” ... She stopped, heavy with fear. Suppose Josephine had been “asked?” She began to hurry a little.... Heylaw! Who was that a-coming, a-coming through the weeds? She screwed up her eyes and peered. It was Josephine, hobbling along down in the ditch, so fat she could scarcely wobble.