he rest of the company
settled down to listen. Lanse, his eyes mischievous, passed a whispered
word among the musicians, and presently, at the signal, the well-known
notes of "_Hail to the Chief_" were sounding through the woods, played
with great spirit and zest. And as they played, the five Birches marched
to position in front of the captain, then stood still and saluted.

"Off with you, you strolling players!" cried the captain. "The spectacle
of a 'cello player attempting to carry his instrument and perform upon
it at the same time is enough to upset me for a week. Sit down
comfortably, and give us '_The Sweetest Flower That Blows_.'"

So they played, softly now, and with full appreciation of the fact that
the melodious song was one of their mother's favourites.

But suddenly they had a fresh surprise, for as they played, a voice from
the little audience joined them, under his breath at first, then--as the
captain turned and made vigorous signs to the singer to let his voice be
heard--with tunefully swelling notes, which fell upon all their ears
like music of a rare sort:

"The sweetest flower that blows
I give you as we part.
To you it is a rose,
To me it is my heart."

The captain knew, as the voice went on, that those barytone notes were
very fine ones--knew better than the rest, as having a wider
acquaintance with voices in general. But they all understood that it was
to no ordinary singer they were listening.

When the song ended the captain reached over and laid a brotherly arm on
Doctor Churchill's shoulder. "Welcome, friend," he said, with feeling in
his voice. "You've given the countersign."

But the doctor, although he received modestly the words of praise which
fell upon him from all about, would sing no more that day. It had been
the first time for almost three years. And "_The Sweetest Flower That
Blows_" was not only Mrs. Birch's favourite song; it had been Mrs.
Churchill's also.

"See here, Churchill," said Lanse, as the orchestra rested for a moment,
"do you play any instrument?"

"Only as a novice," admitted the doctor, with some reluctance.

"Which one?"

"The fiddle."

"And never owned up!" chided Lanse. "You didn't want to belong to such
an amateurish company?"

"I did--very much," said Churchill, with emphasis. "But you needed no
more violins."

"If I'm to be away all next year," said Celia, quickly, "they will need
you. Will you take my place?"

"No, in