A window was thrown open in a dark garret below, and some one, unseen, listened. Down in the street, two passers-by paused, and looked up. No one spoke. The voice soared on--and ended: "Forever singing as they shine...." Maurice came to her side and caught her hand. There was a long sigh from the little group. For several minutes no one spoke. Miss Moore wiped her eyes; the baseball fan said, huskily, "My mother used to sing that"; the widow touched Eleanor's shoulder. "My--my husband loved it," she said, and her voice broke. The garret window slammed down; the two people in the street vanished in the darkness. The little party on the roof melted away; they climbed through the scuttle, forgetting to joke, but saying to each other, in lowered voices: "Would you have _believed_ it?" "How wonderful!" And to Eleanor, rather humbly: "It was beautiful, Mrs. Curtis!" In their own room, Maurice took his wife in his arms and kissed her. "I am going to tell her," he said to himself, calmly. The overwhelming grandeur of the heavens had washed him clean of fear, clean even of shame, and left him impassioned with Beauty and Law, which two are Truth. "I will tell her," he said. Eleanor had sung without self-consciousness; but now, when they were back again in their room--so stifling after those spaces between the worlds!--self-consciousness flooded in: "I suppose it was queer?" she said. "It was perfect," Maurice said; he was very pale. "I wanted to do something that they would like, and I thought they might like a hymn? Some of them said they did. But if you liked it, that is all I want." "I loved it." His heart was pounding in his throat.... "Eleanor" (he could hardly see that terrible path among the stars, but he stumbled upward), "Eleanor, I'm not good enough for you." "Not good enough? For _me_?" She laughed at such absurdity. He was sitting down, his elbow on his knee, his head in his hand. She came and knelt beside him. "If you are only happy! I did it to make you happy." She heard him catch his breath. "How much do you love me?" he said. (Oh, how long it was since he had talked that way--asking the sweet, unanswerable question of happy love!--how long since he had spoken with so much precious foolishness!) "How _much_? Why, Maurice, I love you so that sometimes, when I see you talking to other people--even these tiresome people here in the house, I could just die! I want you all to myself! I--I guess I feel about you the way Bingo feels about me," she said, trying to joke--but there were tears in her eyes. "I'm not always ... what I ought to be," he said; "I am not--" (the path was very dim)--"awfully good. I--"