A selection was soon made, and Amy modestly blended a clear, sweet voice
with the air that Mrs. Leonard sang, and as the sympathetic tones of the
young girl swelled the rich volume of song the others exchanged looks of
unaffected pleasure.

"Oh, Amy, I am so glad you can sing!" cried Mrs. Clifford, "for we have
always made so much of music in our home."

"Papa," she replied, with moist eyes, "felt as you do, and he had me sing
for him ever since I can remember."

"Amy dear," said Mrs. Leonard, in a low voice, "suppose you take the
soprano and I the alto in the next stanza."

They were all delighted with the result, and another selection was made,
in which Burt's tenor and Webb's bass came in with fine effect.

"Amy, what a godsend you are to us all!" said Leonard, enthusiastically. "I
am one of the great army of poets who can't sing, but a poet nevertheless."

"Yes, indeed, Len," added Burt; "it needs but a glance to see that you
are of that ethereal mold of which poets and singers are made. But isn't
it capital! We now have all the four parts."

"Amy," said Mr. Clifford, "do you know an old Christmas hymn that your
father and I loved when we were as young as you are?" and he named it.

"I have often sung it for him, and he usually spoke of you when I did
so"; and she sang sweet, undying words to a sweet, quaint air in a voice