The cover of the portfolio was turned back and the first picture, a bit of landscape in water color, was shown. I had no great technical knowledge of art, but I could see at a glance that Miss Gale’s work was of unusual quality. The admiration, at first expressed in words, soon became the silence of unquestioned tribute. Yet I was not surprised that Edith Gale should do this masterly work. What did surprise me was the genuine appreciation of her father, as shown by his occasional comment. Evidently the daughter’s ability had not been wholly due to the dead mother. At the end of the portfolio there was a series of illustrations for an old Yorkshire ballad. “Daddy and I always sing this when folks will let us,” announced Miss Gale, with an affected diffidence that made her all the more beautiful, I thought. “You can’t get away now till after lunch, Chase,” said Gale; “you’ve got to stand it.” Edith Gale had set the first of the series up before us, and sang the opening lines of the ballad in a voice that might have come from the middle strings of a harp. Then, at the refrain, there joined in a deep, rich resonance that I could hardly realize proceeded from her father. I came in at the end of the second stanza—feebly at first, but gaining in courage until I sang with volume enough to have spoiled everything had I not been more fortunate than usual and kept to the right key. “Well,” said Gale, “what do you think? Do you think those pictures and that singing of hers will convert the heathen?” I looked at the wonderful girl, who was laughing and closing the portfolio. “They would convert me,” I said fervently, “to anything.” Gale seemed to enjoy this enthusiasm. “People mostly like us when they know us, eh, Johnnie?” But Miss Gale was retiring with the portfolio. He turned to me.