His face was sober now. He took the ring and the thin, white hand, and, repeating the words that had made her so happy, he slipped the ring over her finger as he kissed her again and again. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it. "You are getting to be a better lover all the time," she said. "Hold out your hand." She put the tips of her fingers in the palm of his hand and the ring dropped from her thin finger. "Keep it for me a little while. Don't let anyone get it and don't lose it. Now shall I sing for you?" "Yes, Ann--no music this side of heaven will ever be so sweet to me as your singin'." "Dear old goose," she laughed. "Then hand me my hymn-book." She turned the pages slowly. "I have sung all the old ones and found some nice new ones. Here is a new song--a happy song: What a mercy is this! What a heaven of bliss! How unspeakably happy am I, Gathered into the fold--" The song was interrupted by a slight cough which ended in a choking spell. She rested a moment. "Do you like it, Abraham?" "Yes, but that's not my song." "You want the pilgrim song?" "Yes, my little pilgrim, that is mine. Can you sing it?" "Yes, indeed, and I want to": I'm a pilgrim and I'm a stranger; I can tarry, I can tarry but a night! Her voice was clear and steady. There was the same triumphant ring, the same quaver and lengthening of certain syllables. But the strong buoyancy had given place to something suggestive of an echo song, and it seemed to the listening lever that the message came from some more distant heights than the bluff. "That's the sample," she announced. "If it sounds all right I'll begin again and sing through from the first--sing it all. But Abraham, put the big shawl, that's on the foot of the bed, up here handy." "Are you cold, Ann?" "No, not yet--but I feel--feel strange." He put the shawl beside her. "It's handy now. I'll sing." Again she sang the lines "I'm a pilgrim--I'm a stranger----" She was singing slower now. When she came to the words "I can tarry," she stopped a moment. "The shawl, Abraham, wrap it about me tightly." "Let me call your mother," he said as he wrapped the shawl about her. "Not just yet--not until I finish my song. I will hurry. 'I can tarry--I can tarry----'" Again the song was interrupted by a struggle for breath, and she seemed to be swallowing something. "Put your arms around me--I want to finish." Her voice wavered. She shivered. Then came the words quite clearly, but sounding very far away, "'Do--not--detain--me----'" Again there was a slight struggle for breath, and her head fell against his breast. "Ann! Ann! What's the matter, Ann?" She did not answer. He put his hand under her chin and turned her face toward him. A film was forming over the half-closed violet eyes. "Ann! My God! Ann!" The words were wrung from him now in fear and agony. Warm and close she lay in his arms like a little child--but she was silent.