"Now as regards paying me wages, Jerry," I began, then stopped and caught my breath suddenly, for Diana was singing.
Yet could this indeed be Diana's voice—these soft, sweet, rippling notes mounting in silvery trills so purely sweet, swelling gloriously until the whole wood seemed full of the wonder of it, and I spellbound by this simple, oft-heard air, but which, sung thus and thus glorified, touched me to awed delight.
"Aha!" exclaimed the Tinker, as the liquid notes died away. "She can sing when she's happy. Jessamy says there's a fortun' in her voice—" But I was off and across the glade and next moment standing before her.
"Why—Diana!" I exclaimed. "O Diana!"
"What is it?" she demanded, glancing up from the onion she was peeling.
"Why have I never heard you sing before? Why do you sing so seldom?"
"Because I only sing when—when I feel like it and to please myself."
"Your voice is wonderful!" I exclaimed. "We will have it cultivated; you shall be one of the world's great singers, you shall—"
"Don't be silly!" she exclaimed, flushing.
"But I tell you your voice is one in ten thousand!"