rker saw that she
turned from the window and that she was crying, quietly; she put her
hand on the boy's shoulder and patted it with a forlorn gesture which,
to the foreman's eye, was as graceful as it was sad. He moved closer to
Bud and his big hand fell on Cynthia's brother's other shoulder, as he
realized that red hair could look pretty sometimes; and he wondered why
the editor's singing made Cynthy cry; and at the same time he decided
to be mighty good to Bud henceforth. The spell of night and song was
on him; that and something more; for it is a strange, inexplicable
fact that the most practical chief ever known to the "Herald" had a
singularly sentimental influence over her subordinates, from the moment
of her arrival. Under Harkless's domination there had been no more
steadfast bachelors in Carlow than Ross Schofield and Caleb Parker, and,
like timorous youths in a graveyard, daring and mocking the ghosts in
order to assuage their own fears, they had so jibed and jeered at the
married state that there was talk of urging the minister to preach at
them; but now let it be recorded that at the moment Caleb laid his hand
on Bud's other shoulder, his associate, Mr. Schofield, was enjoying a
walk in the far end of town with a widow, and it is not to be doubted
that Mr. Tipworthy's heart, also, was no longer in his possession,
though, as it was after eight o'clock, the damsel of his desire had
probably long since retired to her couch.

For some faint light on the cause of these spells, we must turn to a
comment made by the invaluable Mr. Martin some time afterward. Referring
to the lady to whose voice he was now listening in silence (which shows
how great the enthralling of her voice was), he said: "When you saw her,
or heard her, or managed to be around, any, where she was, why, if
you couldn't git up no hope of marryin' _her_, you wanted to marry
_somebody_."

Mr. Lige Willetts, riding idly by, drew rein in front of the lighted
windows, and listened with the others. Presently he leaned from his
horse and whispered to a man near him:

"I know that song."

"Do you?" whispered the other.

"Yes; he and I heard her sing it, the night he was shot."

"So!"

"Yes, sir. It's by Beethoven."

"Is it?"

"It's a seraphic song," continued Lige.

"No!" exclaimed his friend; then, shaking his head, he sighed: "Well,
it's mighty sweet."

The song was suddenly woven into laughter in the unseen chamber, and the
lights in