So wild and weird was the melody; so passionately sweet the voice, it seemed impossible that the music should come from human lips.

It was more as though some genie of the forest-clad hills wandered through the mists, singing as he went with the joy of his possessions.
Mrs.Matthews came close to her husband's side, and placed her hand upon his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his pipe fallen to the floor.

Young Matt rose to his feet and moved closer to the girl, who was also standing.

The stranger alone kept his seat and he noted the agitation of the others in wonder.
For some moments the sound continued, now soft and low, with the sweet sadness of the wind in the pines; then clear and ringing, it echoed and reechoed along the mountain; now pleadings, as though a soul in darkness prayed a gleam of light; again rising, swelling exultingly, as in glad triumph, only to die away once more to that moaning wail, seeming at last to lose itself in the mists.
Slowly Old Matt sank back into his seat and the stranger heard him mutter, "Poor boy, poor boy." Aunt Mollie was weeping.

Suddenly Sammy sprang from the steps and running down the walk to the gate sent a clear, piercing call over the valley: "O--h--h, Pete." The group on the porch listened intently.