"
"Are you so willing to take a woman who had once given her heart to
another?"
"I don't know anything about '_a_ woman.' I would take _you_, Madge,
under any circumstances that I can imagine."
"Graydon," said Mrs. Muir, suddenly appearing around a turn in the
walk, "what is the matter with you? Why can't you and Madge keep with
us more? For some reason we are getting separated all the time. This
is a lovely spot. Let us sit down here like a family party and have a
little music. I just long to get back home, so that Madge may sing
for us as much as we wish. Here she would attract the attention of
strangers, and that ends the matter; and so I feel as if I had a rare
singing bird, but never a song. In this secluded place no others will
hear you, Madge."
"Very well. What do you wish? I feel like singing."
"Make your own choice."
"I'll give you an old song, then, about friendship;" and with notes
rivalling those of a hermit-thrush that had been chanting vespers in
the dense woods near by, she sang a quaint melody, her voice wakening
faint echoes from the adjacent rocks. When she came to the last lines
she gave Graydon a shy glance, which seemed to signify, "These words
are for you."
"Kinder than Love is my true friend.
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