ohn. She tiptoed back
to her room. The excitement was lulled and she was beginning to feel
sleepy. But she suddenly bethought herself that it would be wise to
look out and see if Charles Stuart were coming. She remembered with
hot indignation how once John had tied a string to his toe, which he
let hang out of the window, and how Charles Stuart had come in the gray
dawn and pulled the string, and the two had fled away in the dusk,
while she slept all unawares. If they had any such plan on foot this
time, she would be even with them. She would sit at the window and
watch for Charles Stuart. She tiptoed gleefully across the room, and,
slipping between the green paper blind and the sash, shoved her head
and shoulders out of the open window.

And then her mischievous mood fell from her like a garment, and there
stole over her a feeling of awe. Elizabeth had often beheld the
sunrise, and, being a passionate lover of nature, her soul had arisen
with the day, radiant and full of joy. But never before had she
witnessed the first mysterious birth of the dawn, and the wonder of it
held her still. It was so strange and unreal. It was surely night,
for the stars still hung above the black treetops, and yet it must be
day, for above, below, on every side one great unbroken voice of song
was pouring forth from the darkness. Or was it dark? It certainly
wasn't light. The swamp, away behind old Wully Johnstone's fields, lay
in blackness, and there was even a hint of moonlight sifted faintly
through the gray veil of the sky. But the white line of birches by the
stream stood out a soft, cloudy white, the fields were dimly
distinguishable, and here and there a tree had taken form from its dark
background.

But the wonder of it was the great chant the whole dark earth was
raising to heaven. As June had waned Elizabeth and John had missed
many of their bird companions, who were too busy raising their families
to sing much. But now it seemed as though every blade of grass and
every leaf on the tree was giving forth a voice. At first no separate
note could be distinguished. It was one great voice, all-penetrating,
all-pervading. But gradually the ear discerned the several parts of
the wondrous anthem. The foundation of it seemed to come from behind
the line of birches that hedged the stream, and here and there in the
darkness of tree or bush an individual song arose to melt again into
the grand chorus.

Elizabeth knel