ntly, and the words she sang lay in his ears, soothing and healing
like some subtle Oriental balm. "On the wings of the morning light" was
one haunting phrase--the other was, "And tell them to be true."

The other prisoners had been touched. Only one or two ventured coarse
remarks about her, and they were speedily silenced by their neighbors.
Harold was eager to seek Jack in order to learn the girl's name, but
Jack was at home, sick of a cold, and did not visit him during the week.

On the following Sunday she did not come, and the singing seemed
suddenly a bitter mockery to Harold, who sought to solace himself with
his pictures. The second week wore away and Jack came, but by that time
the image of the girl had taken such aloofness of position in Harold's
mind that he dared not ask about her, even of his loyal chum.

At last she came again, and when she had finished singing Not half has
ever been told, some prisoner started hand clapping, and a volley of
applause made the cells resound. The girl started in dismay, and then,
as she understood the meaning of this noise, a beautiful flush swept
over her face and she shrank swiftly into shadow.

But a man from an upper cell bawled: "Sing The Voice, miss! sing The
Voice!"

The leader of the band said: "Sing for them, Miss Yardwell."

Again she sang If I were a Voice, and out of the cells the prisoners
crept, one by one, and at last Harold. She did not see him till she had
finished the last verse, and then he stood so close to her he could have
touched her, and his solemn dark eyes burned so strangely into her face
that she shrank away from him in awe and terror. She knew him--no one
else but the minister's son could be so handsome and so refined of
feature.

"You're that voice, miss," one of the men called out.

"That's right," replied the others in chorus.

The girl was abashed, but the belief that she was leading these sinners
to a merciful Saviour exalted her and she sang again. Harold crept as
near as he could--so near he could see her large gray eyes, into which
the light fell as into a mountain lake. Every man there perceived the
girl's divine purity of purpose. She was stainless as a summer cloud--a
passionless, serene child, with the religious impulse strong within her.
She could not have been more than seventeen years of age, and yet so
dignified and composed was her attitude she seemed a mature woman. She
was not large, but she was by no means slight, and