Her long lashes swept her cheeks as she bent forward in the firelight, her
vivid colouring subdued by the soft, playing glow to an elusive charm. At
one moment, as the flames flickered into stronger life, her beauty seemed
to grow fuller and to have an oriental softness and warmth; the next, the
light would die away, and in the cooler, grayer, fainter radiance, her
perfect grace of classic outline made her seem a statue--Galatea just
coming to life, more beautiful than the daughters of men, her great
loveliness delicately spiritualized.

If I were a beautiful woman, I'd learn to play a mandolin.

"Sing, Helen," begged Kitty in a whisper.

In a voice that began tremulously, low and faltering, and slowly gained
courage, she sang the ballad she had been playing. It was easy to see that
she was not a musician; but, as she forgot her listeners, we forgot
everything but her.

Miss Bryant put down the compasses and scale rule she had been restlessly
fingering, and her keen eyes softened and dilated. Kitty dropped on the
floor at Helen's feet; the hush in the room was breathless. Reid sat in
the dark, still as a statue; I clenched my hands and held silence.

The words were as simple as the air. But the voice, so clear, so sweet, so
joyous, like Helen's own loveliness--to hear it was an ecstasy. We were
listening to the rarest notes that ever had fallen on human ears--unless
the tale of the sirens be history.

As the last note died, the fire leaped, dropped and left us in dusk and
silence. Kitty buried her face against Helen's dress. My heart was