It was her singing, however, which most showed that other existence
in her existence. When she sang at her spinning-wheel or her loom, or
knelt battling clothes on the bank of the bayou, her lips would kiss
out the words, and the tune would rise and fall and tremble, as if
Zepherin were just across there, anywhere; in fact, as if every blue
and white lily might hide an ear of him.

It was the time of the new moon, fortunately, when all sit up late in
the country. The family would stop in their talking about the
wedding to listen to her. She did not know it herself, but it--the
singing--was getting louder and clearer, and, poor little thing, it
told everything. And after the family went to bed they could still
hear her, sitting on the bank of the bayou, or up in her window,
singing and looking at the moon traveling across the lily prairie--for
all its beauty and brightness no more beautiful and bright than a
heart in love.

It was just past the middle of the week, a Thursday night. The moon
was so bright the colors of the lilies could be seen, and the singing,
so sweet, so far-reaching--it was the essence of the longing of love.
Then it was that the miracle happened to her. Miracles are always
happening to the Acadians. She could not sleep, she could not stay in
bed. Her heart drove her to the window, and kept her there, and--among
the civilized it could not take place, but here she could sing as she
pleased in the middle of the night; it was nobody's affair, nobody's
disturbance. "Saint Ann! Saint Joseph! Saint Mary!" She heard her song
answered! She held her heart, she bent forward, she sang again. Oh,
the air was full of music! It was all music! She fell on her knees;
she listened, looking at the moon; and, with her face in her hands,
looking at Zepherin. It was God's choir of angels, she thought, and