"Oh, please do not stop, I love to listen to you; it reminds me of something I have heard long ago, I don't know when or where." "Do you never sing, Miss Maverick?" asked Rutherford. "Only sometimes for myself," she said, "I know only two or three songs that I have heard others sing." "But you have a sweet voice," said Houston, "will you not sing for us?" "If you will overlook any mistakes, I may," answered Lyle, "for I probably do not sing correctly, as I know nothing of music." "Certainly, Lyle, we would like to hear you," said Miss Gladden. As simply, and as free from self-consciousness as a child, Lyle began her song, her eyes fixed on the distant shining peaks, and her only accompaniment the music of the cascades. "Love is come with a song and a smile, Welcome love with a smile and a song; Love can stay but a little while: Why can not he stay? They call him away; Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong, Love will stay for a whole life long." Whether Lyle sang correctly that night was never known; even the beautiful words of the old song that seemed so appropriate to the occasion, were forgotten before she had sung more than two or three lines, and her listeners sat entranced, spell-bound, by the voice of the singer; a voice of such exquisite sweetness and clearness, and yet possessing such power and depth of expression, that it thrilled the hearts of her listeners, seeming to lift them out of all consciousness of their surroundings, and to transport them to another world; a world "Where the singers, whose names are deathless, One with another make music, unheard of men." As the last note died away, a long, deep sigh from Houston seemed to break the spell, and Miss Gladden looking up, her eyes shining with unshed tears, said, as she pressed Lyle's hand: "My dear, we have found our song-queen, our nightingale. We can all learn of you, and never equal you." Houston had been strangely moved, and as he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his voice. "I have heard, in all my life, but one voice like that, and that was one who died when I was a child." Lyle looked surprised. "Has no one ever told you you could sing?" asked Miss Gladden. "I never sang for any one, excepting once, for Jack," answered Lyle. "What did he say of your voice?" inquired Miss Gladden. "He said, like Mr. Houston, that he had heard but one voice like mine, but that he did not like to hear me, so I have never sung since, excepting by myself." "Lyle," said Miss Gladden suddenly, "how old is this man whom you call Jack?" "Possibly forty, perhaps a little less," she answered indifferently.