The old-fashioned ballad took on new beauty and meaning. Mellowed by the distance, the girl’s deep contralto was surpassingly tender and sweet. When she came out, the others were silent, with the spell of her song still upon them.
“A good voice,” said Lynn, half to himself. “She should study.”
“Iris has had lessons,” returned Aunt Peace, with gentle dignity, “and her voice pleases her friends. What is there beyond that?”
“Fame,” said Lynn.
“Fame is the love of the many,” Aunt Peace rejoined, “and counts for no more than the love of the few. The great ones have said it was barren, and my little girl will be better off here.”
As she spoke, she put her arm around Iris, and they went to the house together. At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor Brinkerhoff said good night.
“It has been perfect,” said Miss Field, as she gave him her hand. “If this were to be my last night on earth, I could not ask for more—my beautiful garden, with the moonlight shining upon it, music, and my best friends.”
The Doctor was touched, and bent low over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly with his lips. “I thank you, dear madam,” he answered, gently, “for the happiest evening I have ever spent.”
“Come again, then,” she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh. “The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!”