[Illustration: _When Old Tillie was young_] "Well, Dick," said the Lieutenant, "we may as well go home. It is too late to do anything more to-day. It is supper time." Later, when their meal was finished, and tin cups and plates had been put aside, the officer took from its nail an old banjo, and began strumming. Presently he was singing, and his rich, clear voice, admirably suited to the time, place and surroundings, filled the little cabin and floated across to the green where the Indians camped. Song followed song, and the guide continually puffed his pipe near at hand. By and by, a form stood in the doorway. It was old Tillie. She had heard the music and had hobbled over to the officer's cabin to listen. "Come in and sit down, Tillie," called out the Lieutenant. "Do you like music?" She smiled and nodded, accepting his invitation. "Shall I sing for you, Tillie?" A low spoken affirmative came from the old creature, who had seated herself near the entrance. "I'll see if I can remember a few lines in Chilkat that I wrote some time ago," said the musician, as he again touched the strings. It was only a simple song, descriptive of two Indian lovers, and it ran in this fashion: In western skies the sun dips low Above the purpled hills, While glinting waters and their flow The air with music fills. Filmy and light as fairies' wings, The fading clouds descend, Touching with finger tips the strings While leaves on green boughs bend. The lone loon's call unto his mate The rustle of the quail, Announce the day as growing late, And sunshine's pleasures fail. Then out upon the quiet lake, In tiny birch canoe, Ageeluk and her lover make Their vows for weal or woe. In Chilkat tongue the lover sings, The song all lovers know, To dusky maid with copper rings, Where long, lank rushes grow. The shadows lengthen, slowly creep Across the water dark, While little waves are hiding deep, Around the lovers' bark. Content, at last, these lovers leap Upon the steep bank's stone. The leaves are still, the birds asleep, And they are left alone. When he had finished the song he paused. Tillie seemed fast asleep. She had slipped to the floor at the beginning of the song, and sat with her head upon her drawn-up knees, with her hands clasped above them. She made no move. The officer continued his singing, still softly, and in a retrospective mood. He was a born musician. His whole soul craved song, and the greatest deprivation to him in Alaska was the lack of music. For this reason, he kept his own banjo with him, and many an evening's entertainment had he furnished in cabin and beside camp fire, when his fine barytone mingled with an ascending cloud from burning spruce knots, and added enjoyment to the hour.