The wind passed; the heart of the storm was miles away; this was
only its fringe; but the rain pattered sharply upon the thick
foliage outside her windows; and the singing voice came slowly up
the street.

It was a strange voice: high-pitched and hoarse--and not quite
human, so utter was the animal abandon of it.

"I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie," it wailed and piped,
coming nearer; and the gay little air--wrought to a grotesque of
itself by this wild, high voice in the rain--might have been a
banshee's love-song.

"I love a lassie, a bonnie, bonnie lassie.
She's as pure as the lily in the dell----"

The voice grew louder; came in front of the house; came into the
yard; came and sang just under Cora's window. There it fell silent
a moment; then was lifted in a long peal of imbecile laughter, and
sang again:

"Then slowly, slowly rase she up
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by--
`Young man I think you're dyin'.'"

Cora's door opened and closed softly, and Laura, barefooted, stole
to the bed and put an arm about the shaking form of her sister.

"The drunken beast!" sobbed Cora. "It's to disgrace me! That's