But there was something in that house--not to be accounted for by mere creature comforts--that made it easier to fight off the blue devils of loneliness and took away a little of the reminder's stings when some tantalizing shape appeared in his tobacco clouds. Every morning he was awakened by her voice at the piano, a few minutes of scales and then one song, always a true matin song, full of hope and the sheer joy of living. In the evening she sang again, a little longer at scales and another song, sometimes two. Then David's door would be set on a crack and he would lean back in his chair, listening and thrilling with some emotion as vague but as beautiful as a very good idea in ecclesiastical architecture. Sometimes a film would come over his eyes; it is not clear why, for when she sang he forgot to remember that he was a failure, that he was in mourning for a love lately dead and that he had become a mere drudge for money. One evening when he had been under that roof for nearly three weeks she did not stop with the second or even the third song. Ballads and arias followed until she had sung steadily for more than an hour. Wondering, David stole from his room and sat with the other roomers on the stairs, listening raptly to the golden voice that floated up to them. And not once did it falter or lose its pure timbre. Silence fell at last. The other roomers, sighing, went back to their rooms. David went down to the parlor. The singer was still sitting before the piano, absent eyes fixed on the open sheet of music; a happy but half-incredulous smile was playing about her lips. It became a friendly welcoming smile when she saw him at the door. "Did you like my little concert?" "Like it!" He used a gesture to explain that she had set too big a task for his tongue. Her cheeks made answer. "Do you know," he asked abruptly, "that your voice is getting better and stronger all the time?" "I think so," she said quietly. "Don't you think that maybe your throat is getting well?" "I think so. But I can't be sure. It's too soon to tell yet. And it's too good to be true." "Oh, no!" he protested. "You mustn't say that. You mustn't _think_--" He stopped with a curt laugh. "That's queer advice from me." "But it's very good advice--for any one, I am sure." Her eyes had become very grave. "And I shouldn't have said that, for it really doesn't matter so much as it did once. You see, I was pretty cowardly about it at first, when I found I couldn't depend on my voice. Because I couldn't have all I wanted I wouldn't have anything at all. For two years I wouldn't sing a note. The doctor says the long rest is what gives me a chance now, but I don't deserve that. I made myself foolishly unhappy. But it's different now. Even if I can't go back to studying or ever hope to do big things, I know I can sing a little for myself and get a great deal of happiness out of that." It may be that her smile was a little too bright.