f clear, pure sopranos,
accompanied by mandolin and guitar. It was a song she had not heard in
years, one which held a beautiful, tender association for her:

"I would that my love could silently
Flow in a single word--"

A mist came over her eyes as she listened, and the gates of memory swung
back on their golden hinges, revealing another scene, when she had
listened to that song sung by a voice now long since hushed. She put her
hand over her eyes as if in pain, then dropped it slowly into her lap
and sat leaning back in her chair listening with hungry ears to the
familiar strains. When the last note had echoed itself quite away she
leaned over the balcony and called down softly, "Thanks, many thanks,
girls. You do not know what a treat you have given me. Who are you? I
know one of you must be Agony, I recognize her alto, but who are the
rest of you? The Winnebagos? I might have guessed it. You are dear girls
to think of me up here by myself and to put yourselves out to give me
pleasure. Come and visit me in the daytime, every one of you. There goes
the last bugle. Goodnight, girls. Thank you a thousand times!"

The Winnebagos scurried off toward the Alley, in high spirits at the
success of their little plan. Migwan actually trembled with joy. At last
she had been invited up on Miss Amesbury's fascinating little balcony.
True, the invitation had been a general one to all the Winnebagos, but
nevertheless, it was a beginning.

"Miss Amesbury must have been very tired tonight," she confided to
Hinpoha. "Her voice actually shook when she thanked us for singing."

"I noticed it, too," replied Hinpoha, beginning to pull her middy off
over her head as she walked along.

When Agony reached the door of Gitchee-Gummee she remembered that she
had left her camp hat lying in the path below Mateka, where they had
stood to serenade Miss Amesbury, and fearing that the wind, which was
increasing in velocity, might blow it into the river before morning, she
hastened back to rescue it. She moved quietly, for it was after lights
out and she did not wish to disturb the camp. Miss Amesbury's lamp was
extinguished and her balcony was shrouded in darkness by the shadow of
the tall pine which grew against it.

"She must be very tired," thought Agony, remembering Migwan's words,
"and is already in bed."

Agony felt carefully over the shadowy ground for her hat, found it and
started back up the path. But the beauty of the moonlight