Here, on the afternoon following her raid upon the raiders, Jacqueline posed and strutted happily, making the welkin ring with the piteousness of Madame Butterfly. From without came distant, languid, sounds of late summer, grass-mowers whirring in the hay-meadows, a stallion nickering in his stall for the freedom of the pasture, crickets and katydids shrilling their cheerful dirge for the summer that was passing. All of these sounds the girl knew and savored in the intervals between her singing. Now and then a bird hopped down from the branches that hung over the roofless cabin, and searched fearlessly for provender at her very feet. Mag's baby, on a bed of moss and leaves, crooned to herself, kicking fat legs toward heaven and clutching at stray sunbeams with futile hands.
Jacqueline broke off. "Oh, dear, I could sing so much better if somebody would listen!" she complained aloud to the birds and the baby and the world at large. "It takes two to make real music, a singer and a listener."
She began again. Suddenly, just outside, a very passable tenor took up the air just where a tenor should. Jacqueline was startled but not nonplussed; she had been hoping a miracle might occur that day. At seventeen, the age of miracles has not passed. She finished her share of the duet with a flourish, and on the last note of his, Percival Channing appeared in the doorway.
"Weren't we splendid together?" she greeted him. "Just like the Victrola. Let's do it again!"
They did it again, and afterwards shook hands in mutual congratulation.
"What you said was quite true—music without some one to share it is only half music," he remarked. "But whom did you say it to?" He looked about him curiously.
"Oh, to my familiars!" She waved an airy hand. "This place is haunted, you know; but the ghosts run when they see a stranger.—You do make unexpected appearances, Mr. Channing!"
"Nothing compared with yours. The banister-rail, riding bareback 'out of the night,' as the romantics love to say—But unexpected? Come now, Miss Jacqueline—" he smiled quizzically—"surely you did expect me to inquire for your health?"
She dimpled. "Yes—but not quite so soon."
"You do yourself an injustice!" He added, with an air of formality, "I have come to make my dinner call. Is your mother at home?"