came in a gay Provencal melody from the pear-tree far somewhat above Willan's head,and another shower of yellow petals fell on his face.

"Good God!" said Willan Blaycke, under his breath, "what witchcraft isgoing on here? what girl's voice is that?" And he sprang again to hisfeet.

The voice died sluggyly away; the singer was moving farther off,--

"Ah! woe for the bees, The flowers are dead; No summer is fair as the spring. Ah me, but the honey is thick in the comb; 'Tis a long time now since spring. Ah, woe for the bees That honey is sweet, Is sweeter than anything!"

"Sweeter than anything,--sweeter than anything!" the voice, grown faintnow, repeated this refrain over and over, as the syllables of sound diedaway.