hought she was showing her inability
to do what was expected of her in paying back the two dollars.

"Don't bother," said Burlingham. "Pat!"

"Yes, boss," said the man at the oar, without looking or
removing his pipe.

"Get your fiddle."

Pat tied the oar fast and went forward along the roof of the
cabin. While he was gone Burlingham explained, "A frightful souse,
Pat--almost equal to Eshwell and far the superior of Tempest or
Vi--that is, of Tempest. But he's steady enough for our purposes,
as a rule. He's the pilot, the orchestra, the man-of-all-work, the
bill distributor. Oh, he's a wonder. Graduate of Trinity College,
Dublin--yeggman--panhandler--barrel-house bum--genius, nearly. Has
drunk as much booze as there is water in this river----"

Pat was back beside the handle of the oar, with a violin.
Burlingham suggested to Susan that she'd better stand while she
sang, "and if you've any tendency to stage fright, remember it's
your bread and butter to get through well. You'll not bother
about your audience."

Susan found this thought a potent strengthener--then and
afterward. With surprisingly little embarrassment she stood
before her good-natured, sympathetic employer, and while Pat
scraped out an accompaniment sang the pathetic story of the
"maiden young and fair" and the "stranger in the spring" who
"lingered near the fountains just to hear the maiden sing," and
how he departed after winning her love, and how "she will never
see the stranger where the fountains fall again--ade, ade, ade."
Her voice was deliciously young and had the pathetic quality
that is never absent from anything which has enduring charm for
us. Tears were in Burlingham's voice--tears for the fate of the
maiden, tears of response to the haunting pathos of Susan's sweet
contralto, tears of joy at the acquisition of such a "number"
for his program. As her voice died away he beat his plump hands
together enthusiastically.

"She'll do--eh, Pat? She'll set the hay-tossers crazy!"

Susan's heart was beating fast from nervousness. She sat down.
Burlingham sprang up and put his hands on her shoulders and
kissed her. He laughed at her shrinking.

"Don't mind, my dear," he cried. "It's one of our ways. Now,
what others do you know?"

She tried to recall, and with his assistance finally did
discover that she possessed a repertoire of "good old stale
ones," consisting of "Coming Thro' the Rye," "Suwanee River,"
"Annie Laurie"