r. He walked leisurely down the road from The Gore for the
night was warm. It was already past eight, but he lingered, purposely, a
few minutes longer on the lake shore until the moonlight should widen on
the waters. Then he went on to the grounds.

He entered by the lane and crossed the lawn to an arching rose-laden
trellis near the bay window; beneath it was a wooden bench. He looked up
at the window. The blinds were closed. So far as he could see there was
no light in all the great house. Behind the rose trellis was a group of
stately Norway spruce; he could see the sheen of their foliage in the
moonlight. He took his banjo out of its case and sat down on the bench,
smiling to himself, for he was thoroughly enjoying, with that enjoyment
of youth, health, and vitality which belongs to twenty-one, this rustic
adventure. He touched the strings lightly with preliminary thrumming. It
was a toss-up between "Annie Rooney" and "Oft in the stilly night." He
decided for the latter. Raising his eyes to the closed blinds, behind
which he knew the witch was hiding, he began the accompaniment. The soft
_thrum-thrum_, vibrating through the melody, found an echo in the
whirring wings of all that ephemeral insect life which is abroad on such
a night. The prelude was almost at an end when he saw the blinds begin
to separate. Champney continued to gaze steadily upwards. A thin bare
arm was thrust forth; the blinds opened wide; in the dark window space
he saw Aileen, listening intently and gazing fixedly at the moon as if
its every beam were dropping liquid music.

He began to sing. His voice was clear, fine, and high, a useful first
tenor for two winters in the Glee Club. When he finished Aileen deigned
to look down upon him, but she made no motion of recognition. He rose
and took his stand directly beneath the window.

"I say, Miss Aileen Armagh-and-don't-yer-forget-it, that isn't playing
fair! Where's my token?"

There was a giggle for answer; then, leaning as far out as she dared,
both hands stemmed on the window ledge, the child began to sing. Full,
free, joyously light-hearted, she sent forth the rollicking Irish melody
and the merry sentiment that was strung upon it; evidently it had been
adapted to her, for the words had suffered a slight change:

"Och! laughin' roses are my lips,
Forget-me-nots my ee,
It's many a lad they're drivin' mad;
Shall they not so wi' ye?
Heigho! the morning dew!
Heigho! t