When the last note had died away she stood for a moment staring before her. Then suddenly she wheeled, and, catching up her skirts with one hand, ran back toward the house, brushing between the tree-trunks and through the chaparral with breathless haste. As she emerged from the thicket, she saw her husband, in his rough mining clothes, standing on the top step of the balcony. “Gam,” she cried, “Gam!” He started, saw her, and then waited smiling as she came running up the garden path toward him, the blaze of the sky behind her, her face alight with life and color. “Why, dearest, I didn’t know what had happened to you,” he cried. “Where did you go?” Her unslackened speed carried her up the stairs and into his arms. Standing on the step below him she flung hers round his shoulders, and holding him tight, said breathlessly: “What do you think has happened?” “You met a bear in the wood.” “My voice has come back.” The two pairs of eyes, the woman’s looking up, the man’s down, gazed deeply into each other. There was a moment of silence, the silence of people who are still unused to and a little overawed by their happiness. “I heard you,” he said. “You did? From here?” “Yes. I heard some one singing and stood here listening, watching the light coming up.” “Was it good?” she asked, anxiously. “Very. I had never heard you sing before. You’re a prima donna.” “That’s what I was going to be. You remember hearing us talking about it at the Garcias’?” He nodded, looking down at the face where health was coming back in delicate degrees of coral to lips and cheeks. “And it really did sound good?” she queried again. “Lovely.” “Quite soft and full, not harsh and with all the sound of music gone out of it?” “Not a bit. It was fine.” She continued to hold him around the shoulders, but her eyes dropped away from his, which regarded her with immovable earnestness, touched by a slight, tender humor. She appeared to become suddenly thoughtful. “You can be a prima donna still,” he said. “Yes,” she answered, nodding slightly. “I suppose I can.” “And it’s a great career.” “Yes, a splendid career.” “You travel everywhere and make a fortune.” “If you’re a success.” “Oh, you’d be a success all right.” She drew away from him, letting one hand rest on his shoulder. Her face had grown serious. She looked disappointed. “Well, do you _want_ me to be a prima donna?” she asked, looking at her hand. He continued to regard her without answering, the gleam of amusement dying out of his eyes. “Of course,” she added in a small voice, “if you’ve set your heart on it, I will.” “What do you think about it yourself?” he asked. She gave him a swift, side look, just a raising and dropping of the lashes. “Say what you think first,” she coaxed. “Well, then, I will.” He put his two hands suddenly on her shoulders, big, bronzed hands, hard and muscular, that seemed to seize upon her delicate flesh with a master’s grip. “Look at me,” he commanded.