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“God,” said Miss Mason softly, “I am happy, and I thank You.”

That was all.

She got into bed. For a long time she lay gazing into the darkness with open eyes. She was too happy to sleep. She had become aware of sounds she had heard at intervals during the evening almost without realizing them—singing, the twanging of banjos, the sound of laughter. Now in the darkness she heard them clearly. Her old eyes puckered at the corners into little delighted wrinkles.

Then suddenly she heard the notes of a violin. Miss Mason had no knowledge of music, but even to her ignorant ears the hand was that of a master. When it stopped there was silence.

Presently she dozed. Much later she was awakened from a half-sleep by laughter, footsteps, and louder singing. The words came to her distinctly.

She lay there smiling, a queer old figure in a white nightcap, one rather bony hand beating time softly on the quilt.

“For he’s a jolly good fellow,

For he’s a jolly good fellow,

For he’s a jolly good fe-el-low,