As the guitar was placed in Griswold's hands, Ardmore caused all the lights to be turned out save those on the table. In the soft candle-glow Ardmore bent his face upon Jerry, who had been merrily chaffing him at intervals, but who feigned at other times an utter ignorance of his presence on earth. As Griswold's voice rose in the mellow dusk it seemed to Ardmore that the song spoke things he could not, like his friend, put into utterance, and something fine and sweet and hallowed--that sweet sabbath of the soul that comes with first love--possessed him, and he ceased looking at Jerry, but bent his head and was lost in dreams. For the song and the voice were both beyond what the company had expected. It was an old air that Griswold sang, and it gave charm to his words, which were those of a man who loves deeply and who dares speak them to the woman he loves. They rose and fell in happy cadences, and every word rang clear. In the longer lines of the song there was a quickening of time that carried the sense of passion, and Griswold lifted his head when he uttered them and let them cry out of him. One of Barbara's white roses had fallen into her lap and she played with it idly; but after the first verse it slipped from her fingers and she folded her arms on the table and bent her gaze on the quiet flame of the candle before her. And this was the song that Griswold sang: Fair winds and golden suns Down the year's dim aisles of gray depart; But you are the dear white rose of the world That I hide in my heart. Last leaves, and the first wild snow, And the earth through an iron void is whirled; But safe from the tempest abide in my heart, O dear white rose of the world! Blithe air and flashing wing, And awakened sap that thrills and flows; But hid from the riot, and haste of the spring Sleeps one white rose. O scattered leaves of days! O low-voiced glories that fade and depart! But changeless and dear through the changing year Blooms one white rose in my heart. The last words hung tremulously, tenderly, on the air, and left a spell upon the company that no one seemed anxious to break; then there was long applause and cries of encore; but Ardmore, who knew that his friend had been greatly moved, drew attention away from him to Collins, who had just entered the room. The correspondent had been called away shortly before from the table, and he wore the serious air of one heavy with news. "I beg to report that I have just completed a treaty with the journalists assembled in the cellar." "I hope, Mr. Collins, that the journalists' convention below stairs realized that the lobster we sent them for supper was not canned, and that the mushrooms were creamed for their refreshment by Mrs. Atchison's special command. It is not for us to trifle with the dignity of the press," said Jerry.