there was some story or other connected with it (old houses have old
memories) and this must have made it unpopular. Betty did not know what
the story was and yet she had grown up with a queer, childish dread of
this room and rarely went into it unless she felt compelled.

Now, though she was not a coward, it did give her an uncanny sensation
to hear a low, humming sound proceeding from this supposedly empty room.

Cautiously Betty stole toward its closed door and quietly turned the
knob without making the least noise. Then she looked in.

What transformation had taken place! The room was a store place no
longer, for most of the old furniture and all the other rubbish had been
cleared away and what was left was arranged in a comfortable, living
fashion. An old rug was spread out on the floor, a white iron bed stood
in one corner with an empty bookshelf above it. There was a vase on a
table holding a branch of blossoming pussy willow, and seated before one
of the big, open windows was a strange girl whom Betty Ashton never
remembered to have seen before in her life.

The girl was sewing, but this was not what kept Betty silent. She was
also singing a new and strangely beautiful song.

"Lay me to sleep in sheltering flame, 0 Master of the Hidden Fire; Wash
pure my heart, and cleanse for me My soul's desire."

Unconscious of the intruder and forgetful of everything else the
singer's voice rose clearer and sweeter with the second verse.

"In flame of sunrise bathe my mind, 0 Master of the Hidden Fire, That