“And you can always be proud that you are born an Irishman.  My father is Irish, and if you want to see him get up and strut give him a teeny opening to enlarge on his race.  He says that if the Irish had decent territory they’d lead the world.  He says they’ve always been handicapped by lack of space and of fertile soil.  He says if Ireland had been as big and fertile as Indiana, why, England wouldn’t ever have had the upper hand.  She’d only be an appendage.  Fancy England an appendage!  He says Ireland has the finest orators and the keenest statesmen in Europe today, and when England wants to fight, with whom does she fill her trenches?  Irishmen, of course!  Ireland has the greenest grass and trees, the finest stones and lakes, and they’ve jaunting-cars.  I don’t know just exactly what they are, but Ireland has all there are, anyway.  They’ve a lot of great actors, and a few singers, and there never was a sweeter poet than one of theirs.  You should hear my father recite ’Dear Harp of My Country.’  He does it this way.”

The Angel arose, made an elaborate old-time bow, and holding up the banjo, recited in clipping feet and meter, with rhythmic swing and a touch of brogue that was simply irresistible: 

“Dear harp of my country” [The Angel ardently clasped the banjo],

“In darkness I found thee” [She held it to the light],

“The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long” [She muted the strings with her rosy palm];

“Then proudly, my own Irish harp, I unbound thee” [She threw up her head and swept a ringing harmony];

“And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song” [She crashed into the notes of the accompaniment she had been playing for Freckles].

“That’s what you want to be thinking of!” she cried.  “Not darkness, and lonesomeness, and sadness, but ‘light, freedom, and song.’  I can’t begin to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part of them.  I just despise that ‘saddest-when-I-sing’ business.  You can sing!  Now you go over there and do it!  Ireland has had her statesmen, warriors, actors, and poets; now you be her voice!  You stand right out there before the cathedral door, and I’m going to come down the aisle playing that accompaniment, and when I stop in front of you—­you sing!”

The Angel’s face wore an unusual flush.  Her eyes were flashing and she was palpitating with earnestness.

She parted the bushes and disappeared.  Freckles, straight and tense, stood waiting.  Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and rifts of light were touching her with golden glory.  Freckles stood as if transfixed.

The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arched dome of frescoed gold, green, and blue in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choicest colors, and gigantic pillars that were God’s handiwork fashioned and perfected through ages of sunshine and rain.  But the fair young face and divinely molded form of the Angel were His most perfect work of all.  Never had she appeared so surpassingly beautiful.  She was smiling encouragingly now, and as she came toward him, she struck the chords full and strong.