Meanwhile, it was best to bring her under some sort
of control, the steam steering-gear, driven by the uninjured
donkey-engine, being yet available.
In the saloon, Elsie had shielded her face in her hands, to hide the
tears which the entreaty of the hymn had brought to her eyes. Some one
whispered to her:
"Won't you sing something, Miss Maxwell?"
It was the American. He judged that the sweet voice which
unconsciously led the singing of the hymn must be skilled in other
music.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
"Sing! Do you think it possible?" she asked.
"Yes. You can do a brave thing, I guess, and that would be brave."
"I will try," she said, and she walked to the piano which was screwed
athwart the deck in front of the polished mahogany sheath of the steel
mainmast. It was in her mind to play some lively excerpts from the
light operas then in vogue, but the secret influences of the hour were
stronger than her studied intent, and, when her fingers touched the
keys, they wandered, almost without volition, into the subtle harmonies
of Gounod's "Ave Maria." She played the air first; then, gaining
confidence, she sang the words, using a Spanish version which had
caught her fancy.
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