They were most excellent friends, The Bachelor and The Single Lady, their work forming community of interest. He was an instructor of mathematics at the college and she the teacher of a heterogeneous mass of foreign youth in the public school. They had the same tastes in books and pleasures—either preferred a botanizing excursion to the theater—and they were agreed on such homely but vital questions as grape fruit for breakfast, and the rareness of beef. It was an affinity of heaven’s own making, The Girl Who Sang declared. The Girl Who Sang was particularly impatient with them. She considered that they had wasted quite enough time already. She had romantic ideals and was rather intense about things. It was this, perhaps, which gave her songs such charm. The Bachelor and The Single Lady were indulgent toward the intensities of The Girl Who Sang, though they did not in the least understand them or her. They had no youthful memories to help them to such comprehension, for life had not been kind to the days of their youth. They had been dull and gray, and their present congenial tasks had been achieved through many struggles and much self-denial; but neither had been embittered by their trials, and The Single Lady’s brown eyes were still bright and The Bachelor was still a fine figure of a man. Three years of placid companionship brought them to a night in May. A notable night in May. The air was soft and rich with sweet scents and the moon was at its full. The Bachelor and The Single Lady sat side by side on the gallery, talking of vacation plans with obvious matter-of-factness. The young boarders sat about also on the steps and the gallery railing, laughing and talking, and saying things with their eyes, for it was springtime and life and the world were very fair. And, by-and-by, The Girl Who Sang went into the house and seated herself at the piano. And very soon the young people had strolled away in pairs to the summer-house and the shaded places of the yard, and only The Bachelor and The Single Lady remained on the gallery, talking still of commonplace affairs. Then the arc-light swaying before the house flared up and flickered and went out, and the moonlight reigned supreme. On the flood of golden moonlight floated the flood of golden melody which was the singing of The Girl. She sang of love, as was natural with one who was romantic and intense about things.