"I have found that out," answered David.

Jonathan picked up some papers. "If you will excuse me now--I have some work--"

David took the hint promptly, with the feeling that somehow he had been the one to disappoint his friend. That hurt as deeply as it puzzled.

That afternoon Jonathan went out for two hours. When he returned he summoned Esther to his office.

"Miss Summers," he began abruptly, "how is the voice?"

"I'm afraid--"

"You must be afraid of nothing," he interrupted.

"I'm afraid," she repeated quietly, "I have come to a standstill. Some days I feel as if I could sing forever, then the very next day one easy little song will seem too much. And if I am in a draft for a minute or get caught in a shower, my throat gets sore and hoa.r.s.e at once. It doesn't seem to get any stronger."

"Probably it won't until you do the right thing. I took the liberty of talking to Doctor Jenkins. He says the trouble is all with your general health. You'll have to build it up. So--so you must get away from this office, that takes up your time and strength, and live as much as possible outdoors and grow strong."

"But I can't do that. I can't afford it and I can't impose on my aunt."

"Could you afford it if you had a good church position?"

"Yes. But I'm not ready for that. I couldn't fill it. No church would want me, with a voice so uncertain--"

"The Second Presbyterian is looking for a new contralto. I have asked them to give you a trial. Will you sing for them?"

"When?"

"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."

"But I can't do that. It's too soon. It wouldn't be fair to them, even if I should sing well at the trial. I--I'm afraid I've been letting you expect too much--" Her face had grown whiter than usual.

"But you can." Jonathan was very earnest. "You must believe--you must _believe_ you can. You must make up your mind to sing your very best next Sunday. If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first. And you must get away from this office."

"You mean my work here isn't good enough--that you want to get rid of me?"

"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped. He looked down at his desk and nervously ruffled his whiskers. "Oh, not that! I shall--miss you very much. And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for you. But I want you to have your career--everything that is best for you. And"--he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue in the plea--"won't you try it for--for my sake?"

She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat. And though her heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the little man--not so absurd to her just then--part of whose secret she had seen.

"I will try it," she said. . . .

Of course she told David that evening. (How easily and naturally, now that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little evening chats!) He had a moment of grave doubt. His face showed it.

"Do you think I can't make it?"

Doubt vanished on swift wings. "I think nothing of the sort. And you mustn't think of it, either. You must believe you can. It is half the battle. Hear me preach!" he laughed.

"That's what he--Mr. Radbourne--said."

"He was right, as always. This is very exciting. Do you know, I've a feeling you're going to knock 'em galley-west. And that," he nodded gaily down at her, "and that would be the finest thing that could happen."

"You forget your church," she smiled back.

"So I did! But now I remember it, I have nothing whatever to take back."

The witch chuckled as only witches can and sent her broomstick steed prancing madly across the sky. . . .

He saw Esther and her aunt away that Sabbath afternoon with a jest--an extravagant salute and an "Up, la.s.s, an' at 'em!" to which she made answer with a determined smile. When they had been perhaps five minutes gone, he put on his hat and followed.

He found a seat in the rear of the church and waited, nerves strung taut as if the ordeal were his, wishing the services would begin and yet dreading it. His eyes swept the gathering worshipers idly until they happened upon a familiar face across the church, a homely face set sternly rigid toward the choir loft.

"He would be here, of course," David mused. "In a way, if ever she makes good, her success will be his. It will be because he has given it to her."

A nameless little regret followed that. But before he could give it a name the organ burst into the prelude and the choir filed into the loft.

In the first anthem her voice was heard only with the others. The second was a trio in which she did not sing. The offertory solo was hers.

So, while the organ softly played the theme, she rose and faced her ordeal. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the tall west window. One amber shaft reached out and enfolded her caressingly, vivifying the white girlish face: a picture he has to this day.

"By the waters of Babylon. . . ."

For a breath fear clutched at his heart. In those first few notes was a weak quaver, a huskiness that ought not to have been there. His whole body grew tense with effort as mind and heart sent winging to her a silent message. "You must not fear! You must believe!" Another was sending her the same word. But David had forgotten him.

One of those messages must have reached its mark, for of a sudden her voice grew true and steady and clear, shaken only by the poignant grief of her song. Then there was no more ordeal, only a frail wisp of a girl singing as he had never heard it the exile's plaint. David did not quite know her. Up there in the loft, bathed in the mellow radiance that had singled her out as if in prophecy, letting out to the full, as she could not in the little parlor, a voice of power and pa.s.sion to thrill mult.i.tudes, she did not seem the girl who had made music for him, who had offered him friendship in his loneliness. She had grown as the occasion of her song had grown; she had become one of the custodians of great talents, set apart to keep alive and reveal the harmonies that men through centuries had been hearing and recording.

Quivering with joy in her triumph, he was abashed as well. He had too easily accepted the friendship, so naively tendered. He had not appraised it justly. . . . And then there was only the song. He was a captive in a strange land and the ache of the exiled was in his heart.

". . . By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept."

He realized at last that she had ended. The ordeal was over; she had pa.s.sed through unscathed. He leaned back and smiled at the imprints of nails in his palms. His eyes grew wet, but not with the exile's tears.

. . . When they had cleared, without his bidding they turned to where Jonathan sat, whiskers crushed upon his breast.

It was a wonderful world through which David walked homeward that Sabbath evening. He went by a roundabout way, that he might miss none of it. He thrilled with a sense of victory, a song of thanksgiving was in his heart. And from that he should have known what had happened to him. But he was to have that hour perfect.

She was sitting on the porch when he came in sight of the house. She may have been waiting for him. He quickened his pace.

He stood before her, smiling down into her shining eyes.

"A question of ident.i.ty is disturbing me. I'm still hearing a certain song--I think I can never forget it. Are you by any chance the singer?"

"As it happens, I sang a little this afternoon."

"Then the finest thing in the world has happened."

"Did I do pretty well?"