His laugh, too, was quite a surprise to Queenie when she heard it first; true, it was rather boyishly loud, but its delicious abandon of mirth was thoroughly infectious; none but Langley could ever hear it without joining in it. He would throw his head back, tossing back the wave of dark hair as he did so, and the strong, even, white teeth would shine under the moustache; while the pealing ha-ha would provoke corresponding mirth. "It does one good to hear Garth Clayton laugh," Mr. Logan said once. "Only a man with a good conscience could laugh like that." Queenie sat in her low basket-work chair, watching the ins and outs of this happy home-circle, too thoroughly interested and amused to dream of fatigue, though they had excused her singing that night on that score. "I play very little; but I am supposed to sing tolerably well, that is, most people like my voice," she had said, quite frankly, in answer to their polite inquiries. "She sings like an angel," was Cathy's verdict on this; "her voice is as fresh and clear and true as a lark's, but her fingers move over the keys a little like drum-sticks. I have often told you so, Queen; you put all your expression in your voice." "I shall ask Miss Clayton to play my accompaniments," was Queenie's graceful answer. She was not a bit annoyed at her friend's plain speaking; she liked to be told of her faults, and always set herself earnestly to mend them. She practised sedulously after this evening, and gleaned all manner of hints from Langley. "You must teach your fingers to speak; they make acquaintance too stiffly with the keys," Langley said once to her. "You play so correctly, too; it is such a pity you do not make us feel your music." "My life has been all drudgery, you see," Queenie answered, humbly; "there has been so little music in it, all the harmony got jarred out of it somehow. It has been only grinding at hard tasks, rubbing out sums for little girls, and putting them in again; one couldn't learn to play tunes happily after that." "But you sing, and so sweetly too." "Ah, one learns that at church; singing is part of one's religion," went on the girl reverently. "Nothing, however sordid and hard, can keep religion out of one's life; it is just there always. Slaves sing, you know, and blind chaffinches, and poor miners under-ground over their work. It keeps off bad thoughts. Oh, every one must sing," she finished with a smile, feeling that now for the first time in her young toil-worn life she was really resting on her oars. Only resting for a brief space though; by-and-bye she must take them up again, and row on bravely, against the stream perhaps, through marshes of sedgy weeds, fighting against a sullen current, perhaps drifted into deeper waters, but always with the broad blue sky above her, with tints of silver-lined clouds and possible sunshine, with hopes of safe harborage by-and-bye.