indifferent tenor, but the girl thought it full of fervor. It was only that it joined and mingled with hers as she fancied their spirits doing and might always do.
"How that is nize!" she breathed in frank ecstasy, "You got voice lig—lig—"
But there was nothing at hand to compare it with, and she laughed confessingly.
"Nothing," said Garland. "It 's original."
"Yaes—nothing original," she admitted.
"Sing another," begged Garland, with enthusiasm.
She did—"When the swallows flying home"; and then still another—"'T is the last rosebud summer,"
"Where did you learn them?" asked he.
"That day when I got you' picture. Me? I thing you lig me sing, mebby. Well, I git those song; I make them United States' language, so you comprehend."
"God bless you!" said Garland.
The girl leaned forward with dewy eyes.
"Sa-ay—you lig me also dance—jus' one—liddle dance—for you!"
She came bewitchingly nearer. Garland glanced again at her geisha-like costume.
