on Lettie’s knee and looked with a little wonder at her dress.
“How pretty those green stones are, mother!” he said.
“Yes,” replied Lettie brightly, lifting them and letting their strange pattern fall again on her bosom. “I like them.”
“Are you going to sing, mother?” he asked.
“Perhaps. But why?” said Lettie, smiling.
“Because you generally sing when Mr. Saxton comes.”
He bent his head and stroked Lettie’s dress shyly.
“Do I,” she said, laughing, “Can you hear?”
“Just a little,” he replied. “Quite small, as if it were nearly lost in the dark.”
He was hesitating, shy as boys are. Lettie laid her hand on his head and stroked his smooth fair hair.
“Sing a song for us before we go, mother——” he asked, almost shamefully. She kissed him.
“You shall sing with me,” she said. “What shall it be?”
She played without a copy of the music. He stood at her side, while Lucy, the little mouse, sat on her mother’s skirts, pressing Lettie’s silk slippers in turn upon the pedals. The mother and the boy sang their song.
“Gaily the troubadour touched his guitar
As he was hastening from the war.”
The boy had a pure treble, clear as the flight of swallows in the morning. The light shone on his lips. Under the piano the girl child sat laughing, pressing
