He paced up and down on the smooth ledge of rock that made up the entrance to his home and as he sunk his head in thought a voice came up to him out of the blackness of the town below. It was the girl again, singing, high and clear as a flute, as pure and ethereal as an angel, and now she was singing a song. Denver roused up and listened, then lowered his head and tramped back and forth on the ledge. The voice came again in a song that he knew--it was one that he had on a record--and he paused in his impatient striding. She could sing, this girl of Bunk's, she knew something besides scales and running up and down. It was a song that he knew well, only he never remembered the names on the records. They were in German and French and strange, foreign languages, while all that he cared for was the music. He listened again, for her singing was different; and then, as she began another operatic selection he started off down the trail. It was a rough one at best and he felt his way carefully, avoiding the cactus and thorns; but as he crossed the creek he suddenly took shame and stopped in the shadow of the sycamore. What if the Professor, that old prowler, should come along and find him, peeping in through Bunker's open door? What if the ray of light which struck out through the door-frame should reveal him to the singer within? And yet he was curious to see her. Since his first brusque refusal to go in and meet her, Bunker had not mentioned his daughter again--perhaps he remembered what was said. For Denver had stated that he had plenty of music himself, if he could ever get his phonograph from Globe. Yet he had had the instrument for nearly a week and never unpacked the records. They were all good records, no cheap stuff or rag-time; but somehow, with her singing, it didn't seem right to start up a machine against her. And especially when he had refused to come down and meet her--a fine lady, practicing for grand opera. He sat down in the black shadow of the mighty sycamore and strained his ears to hear; but a chorus of tree-frogs, silenced for the moment by his coming, drowned the music with their eerie refrain. He hurled a rock into the depths of the pool and the frog chorus ceased abruptly, but the music from the house had been clearer from his cave-mouth than it was from the bed of the creek. For half an hour he sat, gazing out into the ghostly moonlight for some sign of the snooping Diffenderfer; and then by degrees he edged up the trail until he stood in the shadow of the store. The music was impressive--it was Marguerite's part, in "Faust," sung consecutively, aria by aria--and as Denver lay listening it suddenly came over him that life was tragic and inexorable. He felt a great longing, a great unrest, a sense of disaster and despair; and then abruptly the singing ceased, and with it passed the mood.