It was her's, it was Drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made a change. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness, of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he recognized it now, it had the quality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on his phonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something which gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only from love--and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it before, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as he but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went in hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed him and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her--now. The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his convict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell on his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was more beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears and she drew her hand away. "What is it?" she asked. "Can't you ever care for me? Must I make every single advance? Oh, Denver, after I'd come clear home to see you--why wouldn't you come down to the house?" He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of emotions. "I was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down on the bench beside him. "Not want you?" she repeated. "Why, haven't I done everything to get you out of prison? Didn't I go to the Professor and beg and plead with him and sing all my German songs; didn't I go to the Governor and take him with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?" "Pardoned!" burst out Denver and then he stopped and shook his head regretfully. "No," he said, "I wish you had, though. I traded my mine for it--to Murray!" "Why, Denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. I got you that pardon myself! And then, after all that--and after I'd played, and sung, and waited for you--you wouldn't even come down to see me!" "Why, sure I would!" he protested brokenly, "I'd do anything for you, Drusilla! But I was afraid you wouldn't want me. I've been in prison, you know, and it makes a difference. They call me an ex-con now." "No, but Denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think--why, we _asked_ you to come and stay with us." "Yes, I know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could not forget so soon. "I know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right--I guess we've made a mistake. I wanted to see you, Drusilla; I gave everything I had, just to get here before you went----" "Did you really?" she asked taking him gently by the hand and looking deep into his eyes, "did you give up your mine--for me?" "Just to see you," answered Denver, "but after I got here----"