derfully mellow:

They bore him away when the day had fled,
And the storm was rolling high,
And they laid him down in his lonely bed
By the light of an angry sky.
The lightning flashed and the wild sea lashed
The shore with its foaming wave,
And the thunder passed on the rushing blast
As it howled o'er the rover's grave.

He knew that voice. He had heard it years ago, a century it seemed.
It was the voice of a friend, the voice of Sam Jarvis, the singer of
the mountains. He rushed forward, but overtaxing his strength, fell.
He pulled himself up by a bush and stood, trembling with weakness and
anxiety. Still came the voice, but the song had changed:

Soft o'er the fountain, lingering falls the Southern moon,
Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon,
In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
Weary looks yet tender speak their fond farewell,
Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part,
Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart!

It was an old song of pathos and longing, but Harry remembered well that
mellow, golden voice. If he could reach Sam Jarvis he would secure help,
and there was the happy valley in which he lived. As he steadied himself
anew fresh strength and courage poured into his veins, and leaving the
fringe of forest he entered a field, at the far end of which Jarvis was
ploughing.

The singer was happy. He drove a stout bay horse, and as he walked
along in the furrow he watched the rich black earth turn up before the
ploughshare. He hated no man, and no man hated him. The war had never
invaded his valley, and he sang from the sheer pleasure of living.
The world about him was green and growing, and the season was good.
His nephew, Ike Simmons, was ploughing in another field, and whenever he
chose he could see the smoke rising from the chimney of the strong log
house in which he lived.

Harry thought at first that he would go down the end of the long field
to Jarvis, but the ploughed land pulled at his feet, and made him very
weak again. So he walked straight across it, though he staggered, and
approached the house, the doors of which stood wide open.

He was not thinking very clearly now, but he knew that rest and help were
at hand. He opened the gate that led to the little lawn, went up the
walk and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, stood in the doorway,
and stared into the dim interior. As his eyes