ew a
deep breath and stood gazing first at one side, then at another,
then far down the cathedral aisle. "It's just fairyland!" she cried
ecstatically. Then she turned and stared at Freckles as she had at his
handiwork.

"What are you planning to be?" she asked wonderingly.

"Whatever Mr. McLean wants me to," he replied.

"What do you do most?" she asked.

"Watch me lines."

"I don't mean work!"

"Oh, in me spare time I keep me room and study in me books."

"Do you work on the room or the books most?"

"On the room only what it takes to keep it up, and the rest of the time
on me books."

The Angel studied him closely. "Well, maybe you are going to be a great
scholar," she said, "but you don't look it. Your face isn't right for
that, but it's got something big in it--something really great. I
must find out what it is and then you must work on it. Your father is
expecting you to do something. One can tell by the way he talks. You
should begin right away. You've wasted too much time already."

Poor Freckles hung his head. He never had wasted an hour in his life.
There never had been one that was his to waste.

The Angel, studying him intently, read the thought in his face. "Oh,
I don't mean that!" she cried, with the frank dismay of sixteen.
"Of course, you're not lazy! No one ever would think that from your
appearance. It's this I mean: there is something fine, strong, and full
of power in your face. There is something you are to do in this
world, and no matter how you work at all these other things, or how
successfully you do them, it is all wasted until you find the ONE THING
that you can do best. If you hadn't a thing in the world to keep you,
and could go anywhere you please and do anything you want, what would
you do?" persisted the Angel.

"I'd go to Chicago and sing in the First Episcopal choir," answered
Freckles promptly.

The Angel dropped on a seat--the hat she had removed and held in her
fingers rolled to her feet. "There!" she exclaimed vehemently. "You can
see what I'm going to be. Nothing! Absolutely nothing! You can sing? Of
course you can sing! It is written all over you."

"Anyone with half wit could have seen he could sing, without having to
be told," she thought. "It's in the slenderness of his fingers and his
quick nervous touch. It is in the brightness of his hair, the fire of
his eyes, the breadth of his chest, the muscles of his throat and neck;
and above all, it's in every tone