never hear you try to sing."

"No," she answered. "I tried and tried long after you left home, but it
was always the same old story. I haven't sung a note in five years."

"Linda fell down hard on that song last night," he went on. "There was a
time when that wouldn't have been a starter for you, eh? Did you know
Stella used to warble like a prima donna, Jack?"

Fyfe shook his head.

"Fact. The governor spent a pot of money cultivating her voice. It was
some voice, too. She--"

He broke off to listen. Stella was humming the words of the song, her
fingers picking at the melody instead of the accompaniment.

"Why, you can," Benton cried.

"Can what?" She turned on the stool.

"Sing, of course. You got that high trill that Linda had to screech
through. You got it perfectly, without effort."

"I didn't," she returned. "Why, I wasn't singing, just humming it over."

"You let out a link or two on those high notes just the same, whether
you knew you were doing it or not," her brother returned impatiently.
"Go on. Turn yourself loose. Sing that song."

"Oh, I couldn't," Stella said ruefully. "I haven't tried for so long.
It's no use. My voice always cracks, and I want to cry."

"Crack fiddlesticks!" Benton retorted. "I know what it used to be.
Believe me, it sounded natural, even if you were just lilting. Here."

He came over to the piano and playfully edged her off the stool.

"I'm pretty rusty," he said. "But I can fake what I can't play of this.
It's simple enough. You stand up there and sing."

She only stood looking at him.

"Go on," he commanded. "I believe you can sing anything. You have to
show me, if you can't."

Stella fingered the sheets reluctantly. Then she drew a deep breath and
began.

It was not a difficult selection, merely a bit from a current light
opera, with a closing passage that ranged a trifle too high for the
ordinary untrained voice to take with ease. Stella sang it effortlessly,
the last high, trilling notes pouring out as sweet and clear as the
carol of a lark. Benton struck the closing chord and looked up at her.
Fyfe leaned forward in his chair. Jack Junior, among his pillows on the
floor, waved his arms, kicking and gurgling.

"You did pretty well on that," Charlie remarked complacently. "Now
_sing_ something. Got any of your old pieces?"

"I wonder if I could?" Stella murmured. "I'm almost afraid to try."

She hurried away to some outlying part of the house, reappearing i