other,
meant much. They were something more than polite; they were considerate
in a way which showed their thoughtfulness to be deeply grounded in
habitual action. They used slang, but they used it as a garnish, not as
a habit of speech. Expressions which she had read in books, but had
never before heard spoken, flowed from their lips. Their sentences were
built up for effect; in Crego's case this was more or less expected, but
the phrases of Fordyce and Congdon were still more disconcerting. The
art of their stories was a revelation of the neatness and precision of
cultivated speech.

When Mrs. Congdon led the way back into the house Ben stepped to Alice's
side, saying, in a low tone: "I hope you haven't taken a chill. I beg
your pardon, dearest; I should have watched you more closely."

Once within-doors Mrs. Congdon insisted on Ben's singing, which he did
with smiling readiness, expressing, however, a profound ignorance of
music. "I never take my songs as seriously as my friends seem to do," he
explained to Bertha. "Music with me is a gift rather than an
acquirement."

His voice was indeed fresh and sweet, and he sang--as Bertha had never
heard any one sing--certain love ballads, whose despairing cadences were
made the more profoundly piercing, someway, by his happy boyish face and
handsomely clothed and powerful figure. "'But I and my True Love Will
Never Meet Again!'" seemed to be a fatalistic cry rather than a wail of
sadness as it came from his lips, but its melody sank deep into the
girl's heart. She sat in rigid absorption, her eyes fixed upon the
splendid young singer as a child looks upon some new and complicated
toy. The grace with which he pronounced his words, the spread of his
splendid chest, his easy pose, his self-depreciating shrugs enthralled
her. Surely this was one of the young princes of the earth. His voice
came to her freighted with the passion of ideal manhood.

He sang other songs--tunes not worthy of him--but ended with a ballad
called "Fair Springtide," by MacDowell--a song so stern, so strange, so
inexorably sad that the singer himself grew grave at last and rose to
his best. Bertha was thrilled to the heart, saddened yet exalted by his
voice. Her horizon--her emotional horizon--was of a sudden extended, and
she caught glimpses of strange lands and dim peaks of fabled mountains;
and when the singer declared himself at an end she sat benumbed while
the others cheered--her hands folded on