That is it—“Greenland’s icy mountains.” How she sang it—down—down. Her voice fell on him like magic balm. He was a little boy in church, sitting small and shy in the pew. The tune was deep and low and heavenly sweet. What a pretty mouth the soda-fountain girl had—like coral; and her eyes like gray seas. The flies buzzed, they droned so loudly that he couldn’t hear her. Ah, that was terrible—_he couldn’t hear her_. No—no, it wouldn’t do. He must hear the hymn out before he died. Buzz—buzz—drone—drone. Way down he almost heard the soft note. It was ecstasy. Sky—high up—too faint. Ah, Sodawater Fountain Girl—sing—sing—with all your heart so that it may reach his ears and charm him to those strands toward which he floats. * * * * * The expression of anguish on the young fellow’s face was so heartbreaking that the doctor, his ear at Dan’s lips, tried to learn what thing his poor, fading mind longed for. From the bed’s foot, where he stood, Dan’s chauffeur came to his gentleman’s side, and nodded: “Right, sir, right, sir—I’ll fetch Miss Lane—I’ll ’ave ’er ’ere, sir—keep up, Mr. Blair.” * * * * * He was going barefoot, a boy still following the plow through the mountain fields. Miles and miles stretched away before him of dark, loamy land. He saw the plow tear up the waving furrows, tossing the earth in sprinkling lines. He heard the shrill note of the phœbe bird, and looking heavenward saw it darting into the pale sky. “What a dandy shot!” he thought. “What a bully shot!” Prince Poniotowsky had made a good shot.... Ah, there was the smell of the hayfields—no—violets that sweetly laid their petals on his lips and face. He was back again in church, lying prone before an altar. If she would only sing, he would rise again—that he knew—and her coral shoes would not dance over his grave. He opened his eyes wide and looked into Letty Lane’s. She bent over him, crying. “Sing,” he whispered. She didn’t understand. “Sodawater Fountain Girl—if you only knew how ... the flies buzzed, and how the droning was a living pain....” She said to Ruggles: “He wants something so heartbreakingly—what can we do?” She saw his hands stir rhythmically on the counterpane—he didn’t look to her more than ten years old.... What a cruel thing—he was a boy just of age—a boy— Ruggles remembered the nights he had spent before the footlights of the Gaiety, and that the pale woman trembling there weeping was a great singer. “I guess he wants to hear you sing.” She kneeled down by him; she trembled so she couldn’t stand. The others, the doctor and Ruggles, the waiters and porters gathered in the hall, heard. No one of them understood the Gaiety girl’s English words. “From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strands ...”