r on
again."

"How long'll that be?"

"Oh, I don't know. The whole system is on the bum to-day. Maybe half an
hour; maybe more. Better take another nap."

The accountant looked around the car, encountered Lydia's eyes, and
smiled sheepishly. After a time of silent waiting, enlivened only by the
murmur of the conversation between the motorman and the conductor
outside, the gray-haired man suggested to Lydia that it would be cooler
out under the trees, and if she would like to go he would be glad to
help her. When he had her established on a grassy bank he forbore
further talk, and sat so still that, as the quiet moments slipped by,
Lydia almost forgot him.

It was singularly pleasant there, with the rustling blackness of the
wood behind them, and before them the sweep of the open farming country,
shimmering faintly in the light of the stars now beginning to show in
the great unbroken arch of the heavens.

Here the talk of the two men on the steps of the car was distinctly
audible, and Lydia, with much interest, pieced together a character and
life-history for each out of their desultory, friendly chat; but
presently they too fell silent, listening to the stir of the night
breezes in the forest. Lydia leaned her head against a tree and closed
her eyes.

She never knew if it were from a doze, or but from a reverie that she
was aroused by a sudden thrilling sound back of her--the clear, deep
voice of a distant 'cello. Her heart began to beat faster, as it always
did at the sound of music, and she sat up amazed, looking back into the
intense blackness of the wood. And then, like a waking dream, came a
flood of melody from what seemed to her an angel choir--fresh young
voices, throbbing and proclaiming through the summer night some joyous,
ever-ascending message. Lydia felt her pulses loud at her temples.
Almost a faintness of pleasure came over her. There was something
ineffably sweet about the disembodied voices sending their triumphant
chant up to the stars.

The sound stopped as suddenly as it began. The motorman stirred and
drew a long breath. "They do fine, don't they?" he said. "My oldest
girl's learning to sing alto with them."

"He ain't musical himself, is he?" asked the conductor.

"No; _he_ ain't. It's some Dutch friends that does the playing. But he
got the whole thing up, and runs the children. It's a nawful good thing
for _them_, let me tell you."

"What'd he do it for, I wonder," queried the cond