Hannibal St. John was not musical.  There were only four tunes, and three of them were variations of “Carry Me Back to Old Virginia,” that he recognized when he heard them.  As he lay on his bed of pain, he heard the shrill whistle of his gardener piping in the garden below.  Unconsciously the senator’s well hand marked the time.  All day, as he came and went about his business, the gardener kept whistling that tune, and the senator heard and reheard ever with increasing pleasure.  And this was an extraordinary thing, for it was as difficult or nearly so to move Hannibal St. John with music as it must have been for Orpheus to get himself approached by rocks and stones and trees, and far more difficult than it ever was for the Pied Piper to achieve a following of brats and rats.

Margaret had been for a drive with a girl friend.  She came home and to her father’s side in great spirits.

“Oh, papa,” she cried, “will you do me a favor?”

She read consent.

“Claire has got the wonderfulest song, and I want you to let her come in and sing it for you.”

“A song?” said the senator, doubtfully.

“Papa de-e-ear, please.”

He smiled grimly.

“If Claire will not be shocked by my appearance,” he said against hope.

“Rubbish,” cried Margaret, and flew out of the room.

There were a few preliminary gasps and giggles in the hall, and the two maidens, as sedate and demure as mice, entered.  Claire was a little party, with vivacious manners and a comical little upturned face.

“How do you do, senator?” she said.  “I’m so sorry you’re laid up.  Isn’t it lovely out?” She advanced and shook his well hand.

“Won’t you take a chair?” said the senator.

“I just ran in for a moment.  Margaret and I thought maybe you’d like to hear the new campaign song that everybody’s singing.  My brother brought it up from Portland—­” she paused, out of breath.

“It would afford me great pleasure,” said the senator.

And forthwith Claire sang in a rollicking voice.  The tune was the same as that which the gardener had been whistling.  St. John recognized it in spite of the difference in the mediums and smiled.  Then he smiled because of the words, and presently he laughed.  It was the first real pleasure he had had in many a day.

“Everybody is wild about it,” said Claire, when she had finished.

The senator was shaking with laughter.

“That’s good,” he said, “that’s good.”

“Papa,” said Margaret, when Claire had gone, “who do you think wrote that song?”

“I don’t know,” said the senator.  “But it’s good.”

“Aladdin wrote it,” said Margaret.

“Upon my word!” said the senator.

Margaret knelt and threw her arms about her father’s neck and blushed a lovely blush.

“Isn’t it splendid?”

There was a ring at the front door, and a telegram was brought in.