"That's settled forever."
"Well, in that case," he said, with a short, nervous laugh, "there may be a chance for me within the next hundred years."
"Are you so willing to take a woman who had once given her heart to another?"
"I don't know anything about 'a woman.' I would take you, Madge, under any circumstances that I can imagine."
"Graydon," said Mrs. Muir, suddenly appearing around a turn in the walk, "what is the matter with you? Why can't you and Madge keep with us more? For some reason we are getting separated all the time. This is a lovely spot. Let us sit down here like a family party and have a little music. I just long to get back home, so that Madge may sing for us as much as we wish. Here she would attract the attention of strangers, and that ends the matter; and so I feel as if I had a rare singing bird, but never a song. In this secluded place no others will hear you, Madge."
"Very well. What do you wish? I feel like singing."
"Make your own choice."
"I'll give you an old song, then, about friendship;" and with notes rivalling those of a hermit-thrush that had been chanting vespers in the dense woods near by, she sang a quaint melody, her voice wakening faint echoes from the adjacent rocks. When she came to the last lines she gave Graydon a shy glance, which seemed to signify, "These words are for you."
"Kinder than Love is my true friend.
He'd die for me if that would end
My sorrow. Yes, would live for me—
Suffer and live unselfishly,
And that for him would harder be
Than at my feet to die for me."
As she ceased she again encountered his steadfast gaze with a glance which said, "Have I not done you justice?"