“Oh, is that it?” said Dolly demurely. “I had heard there was a more tangible reason for my bereavement. Vardy, you’re looking serious in spite of all your nonsense. I believe, upon my soul, the stories are true.” “Oh, Dick,” said Everard hastily, “I nearly forgot about that package of books. I dropped’em outside. Here they are and they’ll cost you just eight dollars and eighty cents and the price of a drink for my trouble in bringing them. Don’t know what they are, because I turned over your telegram to Towney; but by their weight they’re worth the money. Let’s have a look at them.” Before Dick could protest he had opened the package. “‘Summer reading for a young physician,’” he began, looking at the titles. “What have we here? Harris’ ‘Insects Injurious to Vegetation ‘The Butterfly Book,’ by Holland; ‘Special Report on the Spiders of Long Island’; ‘North American’—well, by my proud ancestral halls!” “Give me those books, Ev!” said Dick sharply. “Little Everard, the Boy Wonder, has put a dainty foot in it again!” He laughed banteringly, looking from Dorothy Ravenden to Dick and back again. “Dick, too? Oh, Dolly, couldn’t you leave the family alone for my sake? Case of ‘Love me, love my bugs’!” But even the much-allowanced Everard had gone too far. Dolly Ravenden turned upon him with an expression which boded ill for the venturesome young man, when a volume of song from the hallway, that seemed, controlled and effortless as it was, to fill full and permeate every farthest nook and corner of the house, stopped her. It was Helga singing a quaint and stirring old ballad. “Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dare not venture Lest herself fast she lay, If Love come he will enter And will find out the way.” “Heavens!” exclaimed Dick Colton. “What a voice! Who is it?” “Haven’t you heard Helga sing?” said Dolly Ravenden, in surprise. “Isn’t it superb!” Everard had risen and was looking hungrily toward the door. Dolly looked keenly at him, and saw in his face a look that she had seen in many a man’s eyes, but that no woman but one had ever before seen in Everard Colton’s. “It _is_ true,” she said to herself. The voice went on: “There is no striving To cross his intent, There is no contriving His plots to prevent; For if once the message greet him That his true-love doth stay, Though Death come forth to meet him, Love will find out the way.” The soft, deep, triumphant final note died away. There was a moment’s silence. “Dick, you ought to have told me,” said Everard, unsteadily. But Dick paid no heed. He was looking at Haynes, upon whose cold and rather hard-lined face was such an expression of loving pride and yearning, as utterly transfigured it. “I ought to be kicked for bringing Everard down here,” thought the gentle-hearted young doctor.