“’Twould have been the easiest way out of it!” he muttered under his breath. “By Jove, what a voice!” he added aloud a moment later as the priest’s droning gave way to the flute-like tones of a singer. “It’s old Barrington’s daughter—ain’t she great?” said Bill Somers at his elbow. The man had been there several minutes furtively watching for a chance to speak. Hustler Joe did not answer until the last note quivered into silence. Then he drew a long breath and turned around. “Barrington’s daughter? What is she doing here?” “Singin’—didn’t ye hear her?” “But why? How happens it?” Joe demanded. “Rotalick said she heard how that the choir couldn’t sing and that the Slavs and Poles were makin’ a terrible touse ’cause there wa’n’t no music. So she jest stepped up as pleasant as ye please an’ said she’d sing for ’em. She’s a daisy, an’ as purty as a picture. Have ye seen her?” “Yes,” replied Hustler Joe shortly, moving away. Ethel Barrington’s singing won her many sincere, if humble, admirers that day, but perhaps no one inside the building listened quite so hungrily for every tone that fell from her lips as did a tall, sad-eyed man who stood outside—just beneath an open window. When the last sombre procession had moved away from the doors, and Miss Barrington herself, white and faint with weariness, stepped into her carriage, Hustler Joe left his position under the window and walked slowly toward his home. “Yes, I’ll go back,” he muttered. “There’s nothing but hell upon earth to be gained by running away in this cowardly fashion. I’ll give myself up and take the consequences—which will be hell somewhere else, I suppose,” he added grimly. “Good God—it can’t be worse than this!” He pushed open his cabin door and looked about him with troubled eyes. For the first time he was conscious of a fondness for the place. “I’ll give them to Jim,” he said aloud, his eyes lingering on the books and on the shells and curios over the mantel. With feverish haste he began collecting a few necessaries into a traveling-bag. It was packed and strapped when there came a knock at the door. At so unusual an occurrence Hustler Joe started guiltily. Then he crossed the room and threw wide the door. The bent form of an old woman with two frightened eyes peering out from beneath a worn shawl confronted him. “Has he been here?” she whispered, stepping into the room and glancing furtively around her. “He! Who?” “Then he hasn’t, or you’d know it,” she answered in a relieved tone; but her expression changed almost instantly, and her frail form shook with terror. “But he may come! You wouldn’t give him up—you’re Hustler Joe, ain’t ye? They say you’re good an’ kind. Oh, you wouldn’t give him up!” A strange look came into the miner’s eyes. “No, I wouldn’t give him up,” he said, after a moment. “But who is he? And who are you?”