“Good!” said Rutherford, “that will be just the thing; now we will have some music.”
“Miss Gladden,” said Houston, “why have we not been favored in this way earlier?”
“Oh,” she replied, archly, “it has never been a necessity until to-night, but a long row in the moonlight would not be perfect without music.”
This was their first trip to the end of the lakes, and they found the scene beautiful beyond description. On one side an almost perpendicular wall of rock; in the opposite direction, the mountain ranges stretching far away in the distance, with snowy peaks gleaming here and there, like watch towers; while just before them, the shimmering cascades in the wondrous beauty of the moonlight, the deep, unceasing roar seeming to rise and fall with a rhythm of its own.
For the first few moments, they sat in silent admiration of the beauty around them; then Miss Gladden touched the strings of the guitar, and began singing in a rich contralto, in which Houston joined with a fine baritone, while Rutherford added a clear, sweet tenor. Their voices blended perfectly, and accompanied by the sweet notes of the guitar, the music floated out over the lake, the lingering echoes dying away, in the distance.
Lyle took no part in the song, but sat listening with parted lips and dreamy eyes. When the song was finished, she exclaimed:
“Oh, please do not stop, I love to listen to you; it reminds me of something I have heard long ago, I don’t know when or where.”
“Do you never sing, Miss Maverick?” asked Rutherford.
“Only sometimes for myself,” she said, “I know only two or three songs that I have heard others sing.”
“But you have a sweet voice,” said Houston, “will you not sing for us?”