to be seen.
Muttered curses occasionally rumbled from the cells where the prisoners
were trying to sleep.

But the leader was a shrewd young man, and not many Sundays after his
initial attempt the prisoners were amazed to hear female voices joining
in the songs. Heads appeared at every door to see the girls, who stood
timidly behind the men and sang (in quavering voices) the songs that
persuaded to grace.

Some of these girlish messengers of mercy Harold knew, but others were
strange to him. The seminary was in session again and new pupils had
entered. For the most part they were colorless and plain, and the
prisoners ceased to show themselves during the singing. Harold lay on
his iron bed dreaming of the wild lands whose mountains he could see
shining through his prison walls. Jack had purchased for him some
photographs of the Rocky Mountains, and when he desired to forget his
surroundings he had but to look on the seamless dome of Sierra Blanca or
the San Francisco peaks, or at the image of the limpid waters of
Trapper's Lake, and like the conjurer's magic crystal sphere, it cured
him of all his mental maladies, set him free and a-horse.

But one Sabbath afternoon he heard a new voice, a girl's voice, so sweet
and tender and true he could not forbear to look out upon the singer.
She was small and looked very pale under the white light of the high
windows. She was singing alone, a wonderful thing in itself, and in her
eyes was neither fear nor maidenly shrinking; she was indeed thrillingly
absorbed and self-forgetful. There was something singular and arresting
in the poise of her head. Her eyes seemed to look through and beyond the
prison walls, far into some finer, purer land than any earthly feet had
trod, and her song had a touch of genuine poetry in it:

"If I were a voice, a persuasive voice,
That could travel the whole earth through,
I would fly on the wings of the morning light
And speak to men with a gentle might
And tell them to be true--
If I were a voice."

The heart of the boy expanded. Music and poetry and love were waked in
him by the voice of this singing girl. To others she was merely simple
and sweet; to him she was a messenger. The vibrant, wistful cadence of
her voice when she uttered the words "And tell them to be true," dropped
down into the boy's sullen and lonely heart. He did not look at her, but
all the week he wondered about her. He thought of her almost
consta