"Oh, just with other people. Swipes you know." "I do not know what it is but you sing and the swipes I will do." "Just anything. That's all I can sing--anything." Maria moved over to the piano. "The accompaniment it is not necessary but it I can do if what you sing it is not too hard." "It's just something you sing around with a crowd." "Come nearer." Pat moved over beside the piano. "Allons!" Maria looked up at him and whispered, "You can. I know." There was no banter in it. Pat began a little husky at first but then louder and clearer. "Down by the stream where I first met Rebecca Down by the stream where the sun loves to shine. Sweet were the garlands I wound for Rebecca. Bright eyes gave answer, she said she'd be mine. One, two, three, four, Sometimes I wish there were more. Ein, zwei, drei, vier, I love the one that's near. Ut ne sam si, So says the heathen Chinee. Fair girls bereft There will get left, One, two, and three." Maria looked up and smiled. Peter waited in an agony. He remembered that he had not heard Pat sing since he was a small child. He waited for somebody to speak. He did not know whether or not it was good. Somebody would have to tell him if this was the singing voice for which Maria had hoped. She continued to look at Pat and smile and he smiled back now more boldly. Peter couldn't stand it any longer. "Tell me ... Maria. Can he sing?" Getting up from the piano she put a hand on Pat's shoulder. "It is the fine voice that I know. I think it will be the greatest voice in all the world." Peter took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Maria turned to him. "The time it is not up. I have come too soon. There is still the year. But you must not. We cannot wait." "Ask him. Tell him," said Peter hoarsely. "Pat," she said, "if you will come with me to Paris you can be the great singer. It will not be tomorrow. It will be two years. Maybe three years. You must work. You must do what I say." "When?" asked Pat trembling. "In the week." Peter said nothing, but he looked at Pat. The boy continued to stare at Maria. "Pat," he said. His son turned to him. "I want to, Peter. I want to." Peter mopped his forehead again. "He wants to, Maria," he said. "I give up my year." Peter paused. "I give up all my years," he added in a low voice. "But you must not give up the years," said Maria. "We will go to Paris, all three. It will be more and more. You must watch and listen. He is your son Peter." But Peter shook his head. "No," he answered, "it wouldn't mean anything to me. I wouldn't know. I don't care anything about tunes." Maria ran her hands over the keys playing softly "The Invitation to the Waltz." She watched Peter but he gave no sign of recognition. He was fumbling in his pocket for something. At last he found it and pulled out a letter.