walk and I could see!"

"So we can, Daddy," said Barbara, very gently. "Our souls are neither
blind nor lame. Here, I am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so we
belong together. And--past the sunset----"

"Past the sunset," repeated the old man, dreamily, "soul and body shall
be as one. We must wait--for life is made up of waiting--and make what
songs we can."

"I think, Father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?"

[Sidenote: The Real Song]

"Some of them are, but more are not. Some are music and some are words,
and some, like prayers, are feeling. The real song is in the thrush's
heart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughs
in Spring. When you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rush
out, laughing--then you are making a song."

"But--is there always joy?"

"Yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. We must
find it and divide it, for only in that way it grows. Good-night, my
dear."

He bent to kiss her, while Miriam, with her heart full of nameless
yearning, watched them from the far shadows. The sound of his footsteps
died away and a distant door closed. Soon afterward Miriam took her
candle and went noiselessly upstairs, but she did not say good-night to