To begin with: just as they had completed a difficult chorus, the door leading into the outside world had opened with a decisive bang, and there had been an energetic stamping of feet in the little entry, and there appeared Alice and Louis Ansted.

There was still on Alice's face that curious mixture of superiority and discontent which Claire had always seen in her.

"Here we are!" she said, in a tone that expressed a sort of surprise with herself at the idea. "It would be difficult to tell why. Now, what do you want of me?"

Claire went forward to meet them, her face bright with welcome.

"Have you really come to help us?" she asked.

"I suppose so. I don't know why else we should have appeared here in the storm. It is snowing. I don't mind the storm, though; only, why did I come? I don't know; if you do, I wish you would tell me."

"Well, I do. I know exactly. You came to take the alto in this quartette we are arranging. My girls were just assuring me that there was not an alto voice in our midst that could sustain the other parts. What do you say now, girls?"

There was a good deal of satisfaction in her tones. It amused her to think of Ruth's discontented grumble but a moment before:

"If Alice Ansted did not feel so much above us, she would be a glorious addition to this piece. Miss Benedict, her voice is splendid. I don't like her, but I would tolerate her presence if we could get her to take the alto in this."

Then Mary Burton:

"Well, she won't; and you needn't think of such a thing." It was at that moment that the door had opened, and she came.

Claire went at once to the organ, and the rehearsal of the quartette began.

I do not know but the girls themselves would have been almost frightened had they been sufficiently skilled in music to know what a rare teacher they had. Claire Benedict's voice was a special talent, God-given as surely as her soul. Time was when it had been one of her temptations, hard to resist. Such brilliant and flattering futures had opened before her, if she would but consent to give "private rehearsals." There is an intoxication about extravagant praise, and Claire had for weeks been intoxicated to the degree that she could not tell where the line was drawn, and when the world stepped in and claimed her as its special prize. It was then that the keen, clear-seeing wise and tender father had used his fatherly influence, and showed her the net which Satan had warily spread. She had supposed herself secure, after that. But when the great financial crash came upon them, and when the father was gone where he could advise and shield no more, there had come to her the temptation of her life. It would have been so easy to have supported her mother and sister in a style somewhat like that to which they had been accustomed; and to do this, she need not descend in any sense to that which was in itself wrong or unladylike. Those who would have bought her voice were willing that she should be as exclusive as she pleased. But for the clear-sightedness of the father, in those days when the other temptations had been met, she would surely have yielded to the pressure.

She came off victorious, but wounded. When she had with determined face turned from all these flattering offers, and entered the only door which opened to her conscience—this one at South Plains—she had told herself that three hundred dollars a year did not hire her voice. So much of herself she would keep to herself. She would do no singing, either in public or private; not a note. In order to teach even vocal music, it was not necessary to exhibit her powers of song. That sermon, however, had swept this theory away, along with many others. It is true, it had been almost exclusively about the church; but you will remember that it had dealt with the conscience; and the conscience awakened on one point, is far more likely to see plainly in other directions. When next the subject of song presented itself to her mind, Claire Benedict was somewhat astonished to discover that she had not given her voice when she gave herself. She had not known it at the time, but there had evidently been a mental reservation, else she would not shrink so from using her powers in this direction, in this her new sphere of life. Some earnest heart-searching had to be done. Was she vain of her voice? she wondered, that she was so unwilling to use it in the desolate little sanctuary at South Plains; that she could not even bring herself to do other than peep the praises of God in the school chapel. It was a revelation of self that brought much humiliation with it. It was even humiliating to discover that it took a long and almost fierce struggle to overcome the shrinking which possessed her. It was not all pride; there was a relief in remembering that. There was a sense in which her voice seemed to belong to her happy and buried past; something which her father had loved, even exulted in, and which had been largely kept for him. But this thought of her father helped her. There was never a thought connected with him that did not help and strengthen. He would not have approved—no, she did not put it that way, she hated those past tenses as connected with him—he did not approve of her hiding her talent in a napkin; her happiness should not be labeled "past;" was she not in God's world? was she not the child of a King? was not heaven before her, and an eternity there, with her father who had just preceded the family by a few days? Did she grudge him that? Was it well for her to sit down weeping, and dumb, because he had entered the palace a little in advance?

From this heart-searching, there had come another victory; and if Claire Benedict did not say in so many solemn words,

In making her selections for the coming concert, she had with rare good taste kept in mind the character of the audience which would probably gather to listen, and the capacities of her helpers. She chose simple, tender melodies, narrative poems, such as appeal to the heart, with one or two wonderful solos, and this quartette, which was new and difficult, but full of power.

They sang it presently, for the first time; Claire and Alice Ansted, Harry Matthews and a friend of his who had been drawn in for the occasion. It was the first time that even her girls had heard Claire's voice in its power.

They said not a word when it was ended, but they looked at one another in a startled way, and presently Ruth Jennings apologized in under tone for its power over her:

"I'm sure I don't know what was the matter with me. I never cried before at the sound of music. I have read of people doing it, and I thought it rather absurd, but I could not help it. Girls, I wonder what the Ansteds think?"

What Alice Ansted thought might have been expressed, in part, in her first astonished comment:

"The idea of your singing in South Plains!"

However, she said more than that in the course of the evening; said things which gave Claire much more pleasure. For instance:

"How horridly out of order that little wretch is! Why don't you have it tuned? It would be a little more endurable then; or, at least, a little less intolerable. Our piano-tuner is coming out to-morrow, and I mean to send him down here. The idea of having nothing but a rickety chair for a music-stool! Louis, what has become of that piano-stool we used to have in our library in town? Did you store it with the other things? Well, just bring it out to-morrow. Miss Benedict will get another fall if she depends on this old chair any longer. What is that you are sitting on? A pile of old music-books, I declare! The whole thing is disgraceful. Miss Benedict, do you sing 'Easter Bells?' I should think it would just fit your voice. It runs so high that I can do nothing with it; but I wouldn't mind taking the alto with you. Louis, suppose you bring out the music to-morrow, and let her look at it."

And before the evening was over, it became evident to those girls that Miss Ansted was committed to the concert, at least. They were half-jealous, it is true. They had enjoyed having their prize all to themselves. Still, she had bloomed before them that evening into such an unexpected prize, that they were almost awed, and a little glad that her glorious voice should have such an appropriate setting as was found in Alice Ansted; and besides, it was a sort of a triumph to say: "Why, the Ansteds are going to help us at our concert! They have never sung in South Plains before!"

Louis, too, contributed something besides his fine tenor voice:

"What makes your stove smoke so, Bud?" he questioned.

And Bud explained, with some stammering, that there was something wrong about the pipe; one joint did not fit right into another joint—or, as he expressively stated it, "One j'int was too small, and t'other was too large, and so they didn't work well."

"I should say not," said Louis, amused. "The wonder is that they work at all, with such a double difficulty as that to contend with. Well, Bud, you tell Hawkins to come in to-morrow, and see what is the matter with the joints, and make the large one small and the small one large, or fix it in any other way that suits his genius, so that the thing won't smoke, and send his bill to me. We will have our throats all raw here, before the important day arrives."

"A music-stool, and an organ-tuner, and a new elbow for the stove-pipe," commented Ruth Jennings, in a complacent tone, as they walked home in the snow. "The Ansteds are good for something in the world, after all."

About the home-going there was some talk. Claire, down by the stove adjusting her rubbers, caught the watchful, wistful gaze of Bud, and remembered what Ruth had said about her influence over him. How could she exert it so that it would tell on Bud forever? What was there that she could say to him? When was her opportunity? Right at hand, perhaps; she would try.

"Bud," she said, "are you going to see me home through this snow-storm? or must you make haste up the hill?"

It gave her a feeling of pain to see the sudden blaze of light on his dark, swarthy face. What a neglected, friendless life he must have led, that a kind word or two could have such power over him!

"Me!" he said. "Do you mean it? I'd like to carry your books and things, and I could take the broom and sweep along before you. Might I go? Oh, I haven't got to hurry. My work is all done."

She laughed lightly. What a picture it would be for Dora, could she see her plunging through the freshly-fallen snow, Bud at her side, or a step ahead, with a broom!

"I don't need the broom," she said; "it has not snowed enough for that; and I am prepared, if it has; see my boots. I like the snow. You may carry my books, please, and we will have a nice walk and talk. The girls are all ready now, I think. You put out the lamps, and I will wait for you at the door."

Out in the beautiful, snowy world, just as Bud's key clicked in the look, Louis Ansted came up to Claire.

"Miss Benedict, let me take you home in the sleigh. I am sorry to have kept you waiting a moment; but my blundering driver had something wrong about the harness, and the horses were fractious. They are composed enough now, and Alice is in the sleigh. Let me assist you out to it, please."

If it had been moonlight, he might have seen the mischievous sparkle in Claire's eyes. It was so amusing to be engaged to Bud, while his master held out his hands for her books, as a matter of course, and poor Bud stood aside, desolate and miserable. Evidently he expected nothing else but to be left.

Claire's voice rang out clear, purposely to reach Bud's ear:

"Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Ansted! I am fond of walking; I don't mind the snow in the least, and I have promised myself the pleasure of a walk through it with Bud. Thank you!" as he still urged, "my ankle is quite well again, and I have had no exercise to-day; I really want the walk. We thank you very much for your help this evening, Mr. Ansted. Good-night! Are you ready, Bud?"

And they trudged away, leaving the discomfited gentleman standing beside his pawing horses.

"It is some absurd idea of benefiting Bud that has taken possession of her," explained Alice, as the sleigh flew by the two. "She spoke to me about trying to help him. She is just as full of queer notions as she can be. The idea of helping Bud!"

But the master of the horses said nothing. He was prepared to think, but not to confess, that such as she might help even Bud.

That young man, though his tread was certainly heavy enough, seemed to himself to be walking on air, such a wonderful thing had come to him! Years and years had passed since anybody had spoken to him, save in short, sharp words, to give an order of some sort. Now this one, who said "Good-morning!" and "Good-evening!" when she met him, as pleasantly as she spoke to any, who had asked him kind questions about himself, who had told him that the stoves were very clean, and that it seemed pleasant to have the church warm, was actually letting him walk home with her and carry her books! Poor Bud wished there were more of them, and that they were as heavy as lead, that he might show how gladly he carried them for her sake. She, meantime, was wondering how she could best speak, to help him in any way.

"Don't you sing at all?" she asked, her eyes falling on the pile of music-books, and seizing upon the question as a way of opening conversation.

"Me!" said Bud, with an embarrassed laugh. "Oh, no, I can't sing, any more than a calf can."

"But you like music, don't you?" She was still making talk, to try to put him at his ease.

Bud found voice then for some of the feeling which possessed him.

"I don't like most folks' music a bit; but I like the kind you make, I do so."

He spoke with tremendous energy; there was no mistaking the intensity of his conclusions. Claire laughed a little. They were not getting on very well.

Bud's musical tastes had probably not been cultivated. He liked the music that she made, because the same voice had spoken kind words to him. Well, in that case, what would he think of the music of the angels? she wondered.

Some of the thought she put into words:

"I'll tell you where you will like the music, Bud—when you get to heaven. Did you ever try to think what that singing would sound like?"

"Me!" said Bud again, and this time there was unutterable amazement in his voice. It was clear that the idea of hearing the music of heaven had never dawned on his mind.

Claire replied hesitatingly, in almost a plaintive tone. The desolation of a soul that had no heaven to look to, touched her strangely just then:

"Bud, you are going there to hear the music, are you not?"

"I reckon not." He spoke the words gravely, with a singularly mournful intonation. "Heaven ain't for such as me. You see, ma'am, I'm nothing but an ignorant, blundering fellow, that hadn't never ought to have been born."

"Oh, Bud! I am so sorry to hear you speak such dreadful words! I didn't expect it of you. Why, don't you know you are the same as saying that the Lord Jesus Christ has not told the truth? He said he came to earth in order that you might live forever with him in heaven, and he loves you, Bud, and is watching for you to give yourself to him. And now, you even say you ought not to have been made!"

"I didn't mean no harm! I was only a-sayin' what I've heard folks say time and time again about me; they didn't see what I was made for, and I didn't either."

"You were made to love God, and to do work for him, and to live with him forever in his beautiful heaven. If you don't go there, it will make his heart sad. Oh, Bud, if I were you, I wouldn't treat him so!"