e God's handiwork fashioned and perfected through ages
of sunshine and rain. But the fair young face and divinely molded form
of the Angel were His most perfect work of all. Never had she appeared
so surpassingly beautiful. She was smiling encouragingly now, and as she
came toward him, she struck the chords full and strong.

The heart of poor Freckles almost burst with dull pain and his great
love for her. In his desire to fulfill her expectations he forgot
everything else, and when she reached his initial chord he was ready. He
literally burst forth:

"Three little leaves of Irish green,
United on one stem,
Love, truth, and valor do they mean,
They form a magic gem."

The Angel's eyes widened curiously and her lips parted. A deep color
swept into her cheeks. She had intended to arouse him. She had more than
succeeded. She was too young to know that in the effort to rouse a man,
women frequently kindle fires that they neither can quench nor control.
Freckles was looking over her head now and singing that song, as it
never had been sung before, for her alone; and instead of her helping
him, as she had intended, he was carrying her with him on the waves
of his voice, away, away into another world. When he struck into the
chorus, wide-eyed and panting, she was swaying toward him and playing
with all her might.

"Oh, do you love? Oh, say you love
You love the shamrock green!"

At the last note, Freckles' voice ceased and he looked at the Angel. He
had given his best and his all. He fell on his knees and folded his arms
across his breast. The Angel, as if magnetized, walked straight down the
aisle to him, and running her fingers into the crisp masses of his red
hair, tilted his head back and laid her lips on his forehead.

Then she stepped back and faced him. "Good boy!" she said, in a voice
that wavered from the throbbing of her shaken heart. "Dear boy! I knew
you could do it! I knew it was in you! Freckles, when you go into the
world, if you can face a big audience and sing like that, just once, you
will be immortal, and anything you want will be yours."

"Anything!" gasped Freckles.

"Anything," said the Angel.

Freckles arose, muttered something, and catching up his old bucket,
plunged into the swamp blindly on a pretence of bringing water. The
Angel walked slowly across the study, sat on the rustic bench, and,
through narrowed lids, intently studied the tip of her shoe.

On t