Then Mary Jane watched the rich whenever she saw them, and vainly sought for some one without a soul. One day at the hour when the machines rested and the human beings that tended them rested too, the wind being at that time from the direction of the marshlands, the soul of Mary Jane lamented bitterly. Then, as she stood outside the factory gates, the soul irresistibly compelled her to sing, and a wild song came from her lips, hymning the marshlands. And into her song came crying her yearning for home, and for the sound of the shout of the North Wind, masterful and proud, with his lovely lady the Snow; and she sang of tales that the rushes murmured to one another, tales that the teal knew and the watchful heron. And over the crowded streets her song went crying away, the song of waste places and of wild free lands, full of wonder and magic, for she had in her elf-made soul the song of the birds and the roar of the organ in the marshes. At this moment Signor Thompsoni, the well-known English tenor, happened to go by with a friend. They stopped and listened; everyone stopped and listened. ‘There has been nothing like this in Europe in my time,’ said Signor Thompsoni. So a change came into the life of Mary Jane. People were written to, and finally it was arranged that she should take a leading part in the Covent Garden Opera in a few weeks. So she went to London to learn. London and singing lessons were better than the City of the Midlands and those terrible machines. Yet still Mary Jane was not free to go and live as she liked by the edge of the marshlands, and she was still determined to be rid of her soul, but could find no one that had not a soul of their own. One day she was told that the English people would not listen to her as Miss Rush, and was asked what more suitable name she would like to be called by. ‘I would like to be called Terrible North Wind,’ said Mary Jane, ‘or Song of the Rushes.’ When she was told that this was impossible and Signorina Maria Russiano was suggested, she acquiesced at once, as she had acquiesced when they took her away from her curate; she knew nothing of the ways of humans. At last the day of the Opera came round, and it was a cold day of the winter. And Signorina Russiano appeared on the stage before a crowded house. And Signorina Russiano sang. And into the song went all the longing of her soul, the soul that could not go to Paradise, but could only worship God and know the meaning of music, and the longing pervaded that Italian song as the infinite mystery of the hills is borne along the sound of distant sheep-bells. Then in the souls that were in that crowded house arose little memories of a great while since that were quite quite dead, and lived awhile again during that marvellous song. And a strange chill went into the blood of all that listened, as though they stood on the border of bleak marshes and the North Wind blew.