Dick and his friends had learned, at mountain cabins which they had passed, that the country opened out further on into a fine little valley, and when they reached the crest of a hill somewhat higher than the others, they verified the truth of the statement.  Before them lay the coziest nook they had yet seen in the mountains, and in the center of it rose a warm curl of smoke from the chimney of a house, much superior to that of the average mountaineer.  The meadows and corn lands on either side of a noble creek were enclosed in good fences.  Everything was trim and neat.

The three rode down the slope toward the house, but halfway to the bottom they reined in their ponies and listened.  Some one was singing.  On the thin wintry air a deep mellow voice rose and they distinctly heard the words: 

  Soft o’er the fountain, ling’ring falls the southern moon,
  Far o’er the mountain breaks the day too soon. 
  In thy dark eyes’ splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
  Weary looks yet tender, speak their fond farewell. 
  ’Nita, Juanita!  Ask thy soul if we should part,
  ’Nita, Juanita!  Lean thou on my heart.

It was a wonderful voice that they heard, deep, full, and mellow, all the more wonderful because they heard it there in those lone mountains.  The ridges took up the echo, and gave it back in tones softened but exquisitely haunting.

The three paused and looked at one another.  They could not see the singer.  He was hidden from them by the dips and swells of the valley, but they felt that here was no common man.  No common mind, or at least no common heart, could infuse such feeling into music.  As they listened the remainder of the pathetic old air rose and swelled through the ridges: 

  When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again,
  And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
  Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh? 
  In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by! 
  ’Nita, Juanita!  Let me linger by thy side! 
  ’Nita, Juanita!  Be thou my own fair bride.

“I’m curious to see that singer,” said Warner.  “I heard grand opera once in Boston, just before I started to the war, but I never heard anything that sounds finer than this.  Maybe time and place help to the extent of fifty per cent, but, at any rate, the effect is just the same.”

“Come on,” said Dick, “and we’ll soon find our singer, whoever he is.”

The three rode at a rapid pace until they reached the valley.  There they drew rein, as they saw near them a tall man, apparently about forty years of age, mending a fence, helped by a boy of heavy build and powerful arms.  The man glanced up, saw the blue uniforms worn by the three horsemen, and went peacefully on with his fence-mending.  He also continued to sing, throwing his soul into the song, and both work and song proceeded as if no one was near.