He softly touched the keys and began to sing in an undertone.

Old Irish love-songs, asleep in his heart since they were first dropped there by the merry mother lips, stirred and awoke.
The accompaniment limped along lamely enough; but the singer, with hat over his eyes and lemon-juice on his nose, sang on as only a poet and lover can.

His rich, full voice lingered on the soft Celtic syllables, dwelt tenderly on the diminutive endearments, while his heart, overcharged with sorrow and joy and romance and dreams, spilled over in an ecstasy of song.
Next door, in an upper bedroom, a tired soul paused in its final flight.

Martha Meech, stretching forth her thin arms in the twilight, listened as one might listen to the strains of an angel choir.
"It's Sandy," she said, and the color came to her cheeks, the light to her eyes.

For, like Sandy, she had youth and she had love, and life itself could give no more..