'Oh, don't mention it!' was all I could say, of course, and Miss Virginia began to sing before I could speak another word. There is a tremendous charm in her singing: her style is so simple; her voice is so fresh; you can hear every word she says, and she always sings the right songs. How this sort of singing makes a man think! I can't describe the effect it had upon me. As Miss Virginia touched the tinny, stringy old notes and went from song to song,--now an Irish melody, now a nigger one, now an English ballad,--I forgot all about the day's worries; I forgot the motor and the cut tires and the bad weather and the beastly picnic--it was a kind of heaven. If I marry, it must be some one who can sing like this. I have been changing my preferences for blonde women lately. No doubt they look very nice when young, but they don't wear well, I feel sure, and get purple and chilblainy in cold weather. Of course the dark ones are apt to turn drab and mottled, but not when they have as much colour as Miss Virginia. All sorts of scraps of thoughts and ideas chased each other through my mind as she sang. She had got on to a thing she had sung in the hotel several times,--a plantation Christmas carol she called it, the sort of thing you cannot forget once you have heard it, either the words or the music. 'Oh, dat star's still shinin' dis Chrismus Day, Rise, O sinner, and foller! Wid an eye o' faith you c'n see its ray, Rise, O sinner, and foller! Leave yo' fader, Leave yo' mudder, Leave yo' sister, Leave yo' brudder, An' rise, O sinner, and foller!' And there was a bit about a shepherd too:-- 'Leave yo' sheep, an' Leave yo' lamb, an' Leave yo' ewe, an' Leave yo' ram, an' Rise up, shepherd, and foller!' I asked her to sing it over again. I had forgotten all about the time and the drive home and the beastly weather. Luckily I happened to look at my watch. It was nearly six o'clock! 'We've got to look sharp,' I said, 'if we want any dinner at the hotel.' Look sharp, indeed! The woman at the inn must have been mad or drunk when she told us that the low road home was only two miles longer than the way we came. We may have missed the right turning, for Miss Virginia was talking and laughing at such a rate when we began the drive, that I confess I hadn't much attention to spare. We gradually emerged from the valley where the village lay, and were soon on the open moor and fairly lost on it before you could say Jack Robinson.