Turning, he saw Alice standing in the middle of the room, while Mandy’s retreating figure showed who had been her escort.  Her brother Ezekiel had rigged a bell wire from her room to the kitchen, so that she could call Mandy when she needed her assistance.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Pettengill,” said Quincy, advancing towards her.  “The song has always been a favorite of mine, but I never thought of its personal application until I reached the closing words.  I trust you do not think I was so presuming as to—­”

Alice smiled and said, “The song is also a favorite one of mine, Mr. Sawyer, and you sang it beautifully.  No apologies are needed, for the fact is I was just saying to myself, ‘Mr. Sawyer, where are you?’ for ’Zekiel told me that he was going to speak to you and ask you to help me drive away those lonesome feelings that always come to me on a day like this.  I cannot see the storm, but I can hear it and feel it.”

As Quincy advanced towards her he saw she held several sheets of paper in her hand.

“I am at your service,” said he.  “I am only afraid that your requirements will exceed my ability.”

“Very prettily spoken,” said Alice, as Quincy led her to a seat by the fire, and took one himself.  “I am going to confess to you,” said she, “one of my criminal acts.  I am going to ask you to sit as judge and mete out what you consider a suitable punishment for my offence.”

“What crime have you committed?” asked Quincy gravely.

Alice laughed, shook the papers she held in her hand, and said, “I have written poetry.”

“The crime is a great one,” said Quincy.  “But if the poetry be good it may serve to mitigate your sentence.  Are those the evidences of your crime you hold in your hand, Miss Pettingill?”

“Yes,” she answered, as she passed a written sheet to him; “I wrote them before my eyes failed me.  Perhaps you will find it hard to read them.  Which one is that?” she asked.

“It is headed, ‘On the Banks of the Tallahassee,’” replied Quincy.

“Oh!” cried Alice, “I didn’t write that song myself.  A gentleman friend, who is now dead, was the author of it.  But he couldn’t write a chorus and he asked me to do it for him.  The idea of the chorus is moonlight on the river.”

“Shall I read it?” asked Quincy.

“Only the chorus part, if you please,” replied Alice, “and be as lenient as you can, good Mr. Judge, for that was my first offence.”

Quincy, in a smooth, even voice, read the following words: 

    The moon’s bright rays,
    In a silver maze,
          Fall on the rushing river;
    Each ray of light
    Like an arrow white
          Drawn from a crystal quiver. 
    They romp and play,
    In a wond’rous way,
          On tree and shrub and flower;
    And fill the night
    With a radiant light,
          That falls like a silver shower.