The firmly set, full lips were eloquent of
character. He liked that above all things in a woman. He couldn't stand
a simpering doll.
"Sing for us, Sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from
the table.
"Certainly, Dick, if you wish it."
There was no holding back for urging. No mock modesty. No foolishness in
her answer. It was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted,
generous--just like his own sweet little sister Polly when he had asked
of her a favor.
And then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy
reverie. He hoped her music would not spoil the impression her
personality had made. This had happened once in his life. He could never
talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. The memory of it
was a nightmare.
He watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. The tuning
finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile:
"And what shall I sing, Sir Richard?"
"The one I love best--'Fairy Bells.'"
When the first line with its sweet accompaniment floated out from the
porch on the balmy air of the June evening, the Lieutenant's fears had
vanished. Never had he heard a song whose trembling melody so found his
inmost soul. It set the Fairy Bells ringing in the deep woods of his
far-away Mississippi home.
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