“Why, sure!” he answered lazily, and with a stride transferred himself to the piano-stool and struck a deep, strong chord or two. Suddenly there poured forth a wondrous barytone such as was seldom heard in Purling Brook, and indeed is not common anywhere. He had a feeling that he was paying for his wonderful dinner, and must do his best. The first song that had come to his mind was a big, blustery French patriotic song; and the very spirit of the march was in its cadence. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mary Amber still poised, but waiting in her astonishment. He felt that he had already scored a point. When he came to the grand climax, she cried out with pleasure and clapped her hands. Miss Marilla had sunk into the mahogany rocker, but was sitting on the edge, alert to prolong this gala evening; and two bright spots of colorful delight shone on her faded cheeks. He did not wait for them to ask him for another; he dashed into a minor key, and began to sing a wild, sweet, sobbing song of love and loss till Mary, entranced, softly slipped into a chair, and sat breathless with clasped hands and shining eyes. It was such an artistic, perfect thing, that song, that she forgot everything else while it was going on. When the last sob died away, and the little parlor was silent with deep feeling, he whirled about on the piano-stool, and rose briskly. “Now I’ve done my part, am I to be allowed to see the lady home?” He looked at Miss Marilla instead of Mary for permission, and she smiled, half frightened. “It isn’t necessary at all,” spoke Mary crisply, rising and going for a wrap. “It’s only a step.” “Oh, I think so, surely!” answered Miss Marilla as if a great point of etiquette had been decided. She gave him a look of perfect trust. “It’s only across the garden and through the hedge, you know,” she said in a low tone; “but I think she would appreciate it.” “Certainly,” he said, and turned with perfect courtesy as Mary looked in at the door and called, “Good night.” He did not make a fuss about attending her. He simply was there close beside her as she sped through the dark without a word to him. “It’s been very pleasant to meet you,” he said as she turned with a motion of dismissal at her own steps, “again,” he added lamely. “I--I’ve enjoyed the evening more than you can understand. I enjoyed your singing.” “Oh! _My_ singing!” flung back Mary. “Why, I was like a sparrow beside a nightingale. It wasn’t quite fair of you to let me sing first without knowing you had a voice. It’s strange. You know you never used to sing.” It seemed to him her glance went deep as she looked at him through the shadows of the garden. He thought about it as he crept back through the hedge, shivering now, for the night was keen and his uniform was thin. Well, what did it matter what she thought? He would soon be far away from her and never likely to see her again. Yet he was glad he had scored a point, one point against Girl in the concrete.