from out the darkness and the mists, came a strange sound; a sound
as if someone were singing a song without words. 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. Again the girl called, and
yet again: "O--h--h, Pete." But there was no answer.

"It's no use, honey," said Mrs. Matthews, breaking the silence;
"it just ain't no use;" and the young girl came slowly back to the
porch.