“Fine old hymn that!  Great hymn!  And finely read, if I might say so.  Now we’ll sing.”

His voice was strong, true, and not unmusical, and what he lacked of finer qualities he made up in volume and force.  His visitors joined in the singing, Kalman following the air in a low sweet tone, French singing bass.

“Can’t you sing any louder?” said Brown to Kalman.  “There’s nobody to disturb but the fish and the Galicians up yonder.  Pipe up, my boy, if you can.  I couldn’t sing softly if I tried.  Can he sing?” he enquired of French.

“Don’t know.  Sing up, Kalman, if you can,” said French.

Then Kalman sat up and sang.  Strong, pure, clear, his voice rose upon the night until it seemed to fill the whole space of clearing and to soar away off into the sky.  As the boy sang, French laid down the book and in silence gazed upon the singer’s face.  Through verse after verse the others sang to the end.

“I say, boy,” said Brown, “you’re great!  I’d like to hear you sing that last verse alone.  Get up and try it.  What do you say?”

Without hesitation the boy rose up.  His spirit had caught the inspiration of the hymn and began,

“Or if on joyful wing
Cleaving the sky,
Sun, moon, and stars forgot,
Upward I fly,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!”

The warm soft light from the glow still left in the western sky fell on his face and touched his yellow hair with glory.  A silence followed, so deep and full that it seemed to overflow the space so recently filled with song, and to hold and prolong the melody of that exquisite voice.  Brown reached across and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Boy, boy,” he said solemnly, “keep that voice for God.  It surely belongs to Him.”

French neither spoke nor moved.  He could not.  Deep floods were surging through him.  For one brief moment he saw in vision a little ivy-coloured church in its environment of quiet country lanes in far-away England, and in the church, the family pew, where sat a man stern and strong, a woman beside him and two little boys, one, the younger, holding her hand as they sat.  Then with swift change of scene he saw a queer, rude, wooden church in the raw frontier town in the new land, and in the church himself, his brother, and between them, a fair, slim girl, whose face and voice as she sang made him forget all else in heaven and on earth.  The tides of memory rolled in upon his soul, and with them strangely mingled the swelling springs rising from this scene before him, with its marvellous setting of sky and woods and river.  No wonder he sat voiceless and without power to move.

All this Brown could not know, but he had that instinct born of keen sympathy that is so much better than knowing.  He sat silent and waited.  French turned to the index, found a hymn, and passed it over to Brown.

“Know that?” he asked, clearing his throat.