aughed.

"I guess we _have_ to be exclusive whether we want to or not," she
replied.

"Don't you think I'll do?"

"Maybe. I oughtn't to have come, but I just couldn't keep away."

"I'm glad you did. I wanted to see you."

"It wasn't that," she put in hastily. "I had to hear you play again.
That's what I mean."

"I'll play for you whenever you like."

"Will you? Then play again, now. It makes me feel all queer inside."

Peter laughed. "Do you feel that way when you sing?"

"No. It all comes out of me then."

"Would you mind singing for me, Beth?" he asked after a moment.

"I--I don't think I dare."

He got up and went to the piano.

"What do you sing?"

But she hadn't moved and she didn't reply. So he urged her.

"In the woods when you're coming home----?"

"Oh, I don't know----It just comes out--things I've heard--things I make
up----"

"What have you heard? I don't know that I can accompany you, but I'll
try."

She was flushing painfully. He could see that she wanted to sing for
him--to be a part of this wonderful dream-world in which he belonged,
and yet she did not dare.

"What have you heard?" he repeated softly, encouraging her by running
his fingers slowly over the simple chords of a major key.

Suddenly she started up and joined him by the piano.

"That's it--'The long, long trail a-windin'----" and in a moment was
singing softly. He had heard the air and fell in with her almost at
once.

"There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And a bright moon beams----"

Like the good musician that he was, Peter submerged himself, playing
gently, his gaze on his fingers, while he listened. He had made no
mistake. The distances across which he had heard her had not flattered.
Her voice was untrained, of course, but it seemed to Peter that it had
lost nothing by the neglect, for as she gained confidence, she forgot
Peter, as he intended that she should, and sang with the complete
abstraction of a thrush in the deep wood. Like the thrush's note, too,
Beth's was limpid, clear, and sweet, full of forest sounds--the falling
brook, the sigh of night winds....

When the song ended he told her so.

"You do say nice things, don't you?" she said joyously.

"Wouldn't you--if it cost you nothing and was the truth? You must have
your voice trained."

"Must! I might jump over the moon if I had a broomstick."

"It's got to be man