The heart of poor Freckles almost burst with dull pain and his great love for her.  In his desire to fulfill her expectations he forgot everything else, and when she reached his initial chord he was ready.  He literally burst forth: 

     “Three little leaves of Irish green,
     United on one stem,
     Love, truth, and valor do they mean,
     They form a magic gem.”

The Angel’s eyes widened curiously and her lips parted.  A deep color swept into her cheeks.  She had intended to arouse him.  She had more than succeeded.  She was too young to know that in the effort to rouse a man, women frequently kindle fires that they neither can quench nor control.  Freckles was looking over her head now and singing that song, as it never had been sung before, for her alone; and instead of her helping him, as she had intended, he was carrying her with him on the waves of his voice, away, away into another world.  When he struck into the chorus, wide-eyed and panting, she was swaying toward him and playing with all her might.

     “Oh, do you love?  Oh, say you love
     You love the shamrock green!”

At the last note, Freckles’ voice ceased and he looked at the Angel.  He had given his best and his all.  He fell on his knees and folded his arms across his breast.  The Angel, as if magnetized, walked straight down the aisle to him, and running her fingers into the crisp masses of his red hair, tilted his head back and laid her lips on his forehead.

Then she stepped back and faced him.  “Good boy!” she said, in a voice that wavered from the throbbing of her shaken heart.  “Dear boy!  I knew you could do it!  I knew it was in you!  Freckles, when you go into the world, if you can face a big audience and sing like that, just once, you will be immortal, and anything you want will be yours.”

“Anything!” gasped Freckles.

“Anything,” said the Angel.

Freckles arose, muttered something, and catching up his old bucket, plunged into the swamp blindly on a pretence of bringing water.  The Angel walked slowly across the study, sat on the rustic bench, and, through narrowed lids, intently studied the tip of her shoe.

On the trail the Bird Woman wheeled to McLean with a dumbfounded look.

“God!” muttered he.

At last the Bird Woman spoke.

“Do you think the Angel knew she did that?” she asked softly.

“No,” said McLean; “I do not.  But the poor boy knew it.  Heaven help him!”

The Bird Woman stared across the gently waving swale.  “I don’t see how I am going to blame her,” she said at last.  “It’s so exactly what I would have done myself.”

“Say the remainder,” demanded McLean hoarsely.  “Do him justice.”

“He was born a gentleman,” conceded the Bird Woman.  “He took no advantage.  He never even offered to touch her.  Whatever that kiss meant to him, he recognized that it was the loving impulse of a child under stress of strong emotion.  He was fine and manly as any man ever could have been.”