d Grace, with interest. "And all these years we never knew
it. David, you can surely keep a secret."

"Oh, I can't sing," protested David, coloring. "Miriam only thinks I
can. Our real singers are among the missing to-night."

"You mean Hippy and Nora?"

"Yes," nodded David. "Isn't it strange we didn't hear from them. I wrote
Tom, Hippy and Reddy to come on here for Thanksgiving if they could.
Reddy and Jessica couldn't make it. They are coming home for Christmas,
though. Tom Gray is away up in the Michigan woods. Still he sent a
telegram that he couldn't come. But Hippy didn't answer. This morning I
sent him a telegram, and so far there's no answer to that, either."

"I hope neither of them is ill." Mrs. Gray's face took on a look of
concern. "It is not like Hippy to neglect his friends."

"Nora is usually the soul of promptness, too," reminded Anne.

"If I don't hear anything to-night, I'll telegraph Hippy again
to-morrow," announced David.

There was a pleasant silence in the room. Every one's thoughts were on
the piquant-faced Irish girl, whose sprightly manner and charming
personality made her a favorite, and her plump, loquacious husband,
whose ready flow of funny sayings never seemed to diminish.

"There aren't any wishing rings nowadays," sighed Grace, "so there's no
use in saying, 'I wish Nora and Hippy were here.' Come on, David, and
sing for us. Miriam says you can, and you know it wouldn't be nice in
you to contradict your sister."

"You can sing, 'Ah, Moon of My Delight,'" suggested Miriam to her
brother. "It is Omar Khayyam set to music, you know"--she turned to
Grace--"from the song cycle, 'In a Persian Garden.'"

"I love it," commented Anne, her eyes dreamy. "Do sing it, David."

As Miriam went to the piano the whirr of the electric bell came to their
ears.

Grace glanced interrogatively at David. "Perhaps it's a telegram," she
commented.

David, who had just risen from his chair to go to the piano, stopped
short and listened. "False alarm. Must be the doctor. One of the maids
is sick." He crossed to the piano where Miriam already stood, turning
over a pile of music. Having found the song for which she was searching,
she took her place before the piano and began the quatrain's throbbing
accompaniment.

David's voice rang out tunefully. He sang with considerable feeling and
expression. He had reached the exquisite line, "Through this same
Garden--and for One in Vain!" when a clear high vo