They began softly and with a decided tremor in their voices, but gradually growing more confident, they sang louder and louder, and the hills sent back the echo.
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"My love, my love, my love, I love you so." When they had finished, the widow turned and looked wistfully at the silently-flowing water, then sighed.
"I hope the song has not made you unhappy," almost whispered Titcomb.
"Unhappy, Mr. Jebb? This is the first happy day I've known these many years."
"Let us hope this is but the beginning of many happy days," he spoke with insinuating sympathy.
"How is it?" she interrupted, "that all them pieces of po'try you write are about a lady named Juno; who is she that you are so powerful fond of her?"
"Can't you guess?" his eyes trying to convey the thought rampant in his brain.
"I can't guess, 'cept that her name is Juno," said the widow dubiously.
