"You can scarcely call such melodious tones noise, can you?" replied Miss Wilbur gently. "His flute is more liquid than that of the hermit thrush."
"I never heard him play the flute." Miss Priscilla looked surprised.
"I refer to the marvelous, God-bestowed instrument that dwells within him," explained Diana.
"I think myself," said Miss Priscilla, clearing her throat, "that it's kind o' cozy to hear a man whistlin' and shoutin' around in the mornin' while he's dressin'. I suppose he'll be leavin' us pretty soon now. I hate to see him go, he's gettin' the plants into such good shape; and wasn't he good about scythin' paths so we wouldn't get wet to our knees every time we left the house? I don't know how you ever had the courage to wade over to this piazza before I came, Miss Wilbur."
"Mr. Barrison certainly did smooth our paths."
"He told me he was Aunt Priscilla's man-of-all-work," said Veronica, busy with her omelette.
"So he has been," replied Diana seriously: "out of the goodness of his heart and the cleverness of his hands; but he is a great artist, Miss Veronica, or at least he will be."
"Do you mean he paints?"
"No, he sings: and it is singing—such as must have sounded when the stars sang together."