He wondered at the radiance in her suddenly lifted face. How could he know that at last the so often asked question nearest to her heart was answered, and answered by him? He thought her pretty! “I brought you the violin,” she said, turning away with an effort. “I reckon I’d better go ’n’ take off these things. They cert’n’y do look foolish--don’t they?” “No, don’t,” said Roden. “You ought to humor an invalid, you know. You are so awfully nice to look at in that queer old gown.” Dimples that he had never before seen, just born of joy, stole in and out about the corners of the girl’s red lips. She was more even than beautiful; she was enchanting. How ever had she come by all those old-time airs and movements? Had she perchance imbibed the spirit of the past with the air of the old house where she had always lived? Did some of those old _grandes dames_ lean from the walls at night to teach her that subtle, upward carriage of the head? He forgot all about the violin, and stood looking at her in wondering absorption. “I--I’ve got a new song for you,” she said, presently, in a low voice. She seated herself sidewise at the piano, as though diffident of the furbelows that composed the back of her novel attire, striking at the same time noiseless chords with her left hand. “You said you liked Scotch songs. I found this one in a old book that b’longed to my mother. She was Scotch. Mus’ I sing it?” “Please do,” said Roden. Thus encouraged, she sang to him in the following words: “I hae a curl, a bricht brown curl, A bonny, bonny curl o’ hair, An’ close to my heart it nestles warm, But its brithers dinna ken it’s there. “I stole my curl, my silk-saft curl, My bonny, bonny curl o’ hair, An’ a’ the nicht it sleeps upon my heart, But its master doesna ken it’s there. “O bricht, bricht curl! O luvely, luvely curl! O curl o’ my bonny, bonny dear! I wad that again ye waur shinin’ on his head, But I wad that his head waur here!” Now although Roden had often before heard her sing, he was conscious of a sound in her voice to-night which was utterly new to him--a sound so marvellous, so altogether exquisite, so melting sweet, that he was almost afraid the beating of his heart would prevent some of its beauty from reaching him. There was in it a divine fulness which he had never before heard in a human voice. It was like the sea on summer nights. It was like the distant wind in many leaves. It was like the eternal complaint of the voices of the fields on April noons. It filled him with a sense of peace and unrest at the same time. It thrilled him and possessed him utterly. Blind that he was, however, no faintest inkling of what had produced this divine result came to his mind. He was touched, but touched only as he would have been by any other voice as perfect.