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.