It might have been a week or so later that Stella made a discovery which profoundly affected the whole current of her thought.  The long twilight was just beginning.  She was curled on the living-room floor, playing with the baby.  Fyfe and Charlie Benton sat by a window, smoking, conversing, as they frequently did, upon certain phases of the timber industry.  A draft from an open window fluttered some sheet music down off the piano rack, and Stella rescued it from Jack Junior’s tiny, clawing hands.  Some of the Abbeys had been there the evening before.  One bit of music was a song Linda had tried to sing and given up because it soared above her vocal range.  Stella rose to put up the music.  Without any premeditated idea of playing, she sat down at the piano and began to run over the accompaniment.  She could play passably.

“That doesn’t seem so very hard,” she thought aloud.  Benton turned at sound of her words.

“Say, did you never get any part of your voice back, Stell?” he asked.  “I never hear you try to sing.”

“No,” she answered.  “I tried and tried long after you left home, but it was always the same old story.  I haven’t sung a note in five years.”

“Linda fell down hard on that song last night,” he went on.  “There was a time when that wouldn’t have been a starter for you, eh?  Did you know Stella used to warble like a prima donna, Jack?”

Fyfe shook his head.

“Fact.  The governor spent a pot of money cultivating her voice.  It was some voice, too.  She—­”

He broke off to listen.  Stella was humming the words of the song, her fingers picking at the melody instead of the accompaniment.

“Why, you can,” Benton cried.

“Can what?” She turned on the stool.

“Sing, of course.  You got that high trill that Linda had to screech through.  You got it perfectly, without effort.”

“I didn’t,” she returned.  “Why, I wasn’t singing, just humming it over.”

“You let out a link or two on those high notes just the same, whether you knew you were doing it or not,” her brother returned impatiently.  “Go on.  Turn yourself loose.  Sing that song.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Stella said ruefully.  “I haven’t tried for so long.  It’s no use.  My voice always cracks, and I want to cry.”

“Crack fiddlesticks!” Benton retorted.  “I know what it used to be.  Believe me, it sounded natural, even if you were just lilting.  Here.”

He came over to the piano and playfully edged her off the stool.

“I’m pretty rusty,” he said.  “But I can fake what I can’t play of this.  It’s simple enough.  You stand up there and sing.”

She only stood looking at him.

“Go on,” he commanded.  “I believe you can sing anything.  You have to show me, if you can’t.”

Stella fingered the sheets reluctantly.  Then she drew a deep breath and began.