and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I
so decided, was plainly in its apogee.

I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I
certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top
floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most
familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened.
It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless
_ritournelle_:

_Gaiement je chante et chanterai; Ti-ho-ho,
Car mon bonheur je garderai. Ti-ho-ho-ho._

For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there
was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been
singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness
seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and
I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her
heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice
that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes
that had stolen the man's heart?

A tiny pain shot through me. The bird was finding its song; would it now
also use its wings? Is Frances destined to become a great singer again?
Will her life, after a time, be led away from humbler surroundings, from
her modest friends, and is her personality to become in my memory but
one of those dear and charming recollections every man stores away in
his heart, as some hide away faded flowers, a scented note, or perchance
the glove that has touched a beloved hand?

I coughed, prudently, to announce my coming. She was in the big chair
with Baby Paul on her lap and put her finger to her lips, thus
announcing that her offspring had fallen asleep. I entered on tiptoe and
drew a chair towards her, with due precaution, assuming the air of a
Grand Inquisitor.

"Frances," I accused her, severely, but in a low voice, "you have been
guilty of singing. This you have most certainly done without the
faculty's permission. Dr. Porter would scold you most sternly, if he
heard of it, and I feel that it is my duty to take so disagreeable a job
from his shoulders. You are a bad, bold, rebellious creature and I don't
know what I shall do to you!"

"I--I think I shall be able to sing again," she whispered, her eyes
shining brightly. "Dear--dear David, I--I am so happy!"

Across the body of Baby Paul she extended her arm and hand. I took her
fingers i