“Who made it up?” pursued Mr. Willetts. “Beethoven.” “Foreigner, I expect. Yet in some way or another makes me think of fishing down on the Wabash bend in Vigo, and camping out nights like this; it's a mighty pretty country around there--especially at night.” The sonata was finished, and then she sang--sang the “Angel's Serenade.” As the soft soprano lifted and fell in the modulations of that song there was in its timbre, apart from the pure, amber music of it, a questing, seeking pathos, and Willetts felt the hand on his shoulder tighten and then relax; and, as the song ended, he saw that his companion's eyes were shining and moist. CHAPTER IX. NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST There was a lace of faint mists along the creek and beyond, when John and Helen reached their bench (of course they went back there), and broken roundelays were croaking from a bayou up the stream, where rakish frogs held carnival in resentment of the lonesomeness. The air was still and close. Hundreds of fire-flies coquetted with the darkness amongst the trees across the water, glinting from unexpected spots, shading their little lanterns for a second to glow again from other shadows. The sky was a wonderful olive green; a lazy cloud drifted in it and lapped itself athwart the moon. “The dead painters design the skies for us each day and night, I think,” Helen said, as she dropped a little scarf from her shoulders and leaned back on the bench. “It must be the only way to keep them happy and busy 'up there.' They let them take turns, and those not on duty, probably float around and criticise.” “They've given a good man his turn to-night,” said John; “some quiet colorist, a poetic, friendly soul, no Turner--though I think I've seen a Turner sunset or two in Plattville.” “It was a sculptor's sunset this evening. Did you see it?--great massy clouds piled heap on heap, almost with violence. I'm sure it was Michelangelo. The judge didn't think it meant Michelangelo; he thought it meant rain.” “Michelangelo gets a chance rather often, doesn't he, considering the number of art people there must be over there? I believe I've seen a good many sunsets of his, and a few dawns, too; the dawns not for a long time--I used to see them more frequently toward the close of senior year, when we sat up all night talking, knowing we'd lose one another soon, and trying to hold on as long as we could.”