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“
I
’
d
go
to
Chicago
and
sing
in
the
First
Episcopal
choir
,
”
answered
Freckles
promptly
.
The
Angel
dropped
on
a
seat
—
the
hat
she
had
removed
and
held
in
her
fingers
rolled
to
her
feet
.
“
There
!
”
she
exclaimed
vehemently
.
“
You
can
see
what
I
’
m
going
to
be
.
Nothing
!
Absolutely
nothing
!
You
can
sing
?
Of
course
you
can
sing
!
It
is
written
all
over
you
.
”
“
Anyone
with
half
wit
could
have
seen
he
could
sing
,
without
having
to
be
told
,
”
she
thought
.
“
It
’
s
in
the
slenderness
of
his
fingers
and
his
quick
nervous
touch
.
It
is
in
the
brightness
of
his
hair
,
the
fire
of
his
eyes
,
the
breadth
of
his
chest
,
the
muscles
of
his
throat
and
neck
;
and
above
all
,
it
’
s
in
every
tone
of
his
voice
,
for
even
as
he
speak
it
’
s
the
sweetest
sound
I
ever
heard
from
the
throat
of
a
mortal
.
”
“
Will
you
do
something
for
me
?
”
she
asked
.
“
I
’
ll
do
anything
in
the
world
you
want
me
to
,
”
said
Freckles
largely
,
“
and
if
I
can
’
t
do
what
you
want
,
I
’
ll
go
to
work
at
once
and
I
’
ll
try
’
til
I
can
.
”
“
Good
!
That
’
s
business
!
”
said
the
Angel
.
“
You
go
over
there
and
stand
before
that
hedge
and
sing
something
.
Just
anything
you
think
of
first
.
”
Freckles
faced
the
Angel
from
his
banked
wall
of
brown
,
blue
,
and
crimson
,
with
its
background
of
solid
green
,
and
lifting
his
face
to
the
sky
,
he
sang
the
first
thing
that
came
into
his
mind
.
It
was
a
children
’
s
song
that
he
had
led
for
the
little
folks
at
the
Home
many
times
,
recalled
to
his
mind
by
the
Angel
’
s
exclamation
:
“
To
fairyland
we
go
,
With
a
song
of
joy
,
heigh
-
o
.
