"Now, 'Wake Up In the Morning.'"
Again he listened with wide, staring eyes, that saw nothing except visions within.
"Now, then, 'The Ole Gray Hoss."'
As the last notes died away, he tried to smile again:
"One more—'Hard Times an' Wuss er Comin'.'"
With deft, sure touch and soft negro dialect she sang it through.
"Now, didn't I tell you that you couldn't fool me? No Yankee girl could play and sing these songs. I'm in heaven, and you're an angel."
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself to flirt with me, with one foot in the grave?"
"That's the time to get on good terms with the angels—but I'm done dead"
Elsie laughed in spite of herself.
"I know it," he went on, "because you have shining golden hair and amber eyes, instead of blue ones. I never saw a girl in my life before with such eyes and hair."
"But you're young yet."
"Never—was—such—a—girl—on—earth—you're—an"
She lifted her finger in warning, and his eyelids drooped in exhausted stupor.
"You mustn't talk any more," she whispered, shaking her head.
A commotion at the door caused Elsie to turn from the cot. A sweet motherly woman of fifty, in an old faded black dress, was pleading with the guard to be allowed to pass.
