"As you are good to our little one, may God be good to you."
So he forced himself to say:
"If you want to sing now, Josephine, I will listen."
It wasn't a very gracious request, but the other did not notice that. The sight of the home flowers had brought back a crowd of happy memories, and without delay she began:
"Maxwelton braes are bonny,
Where early fa's the dew,"
and had not proceeded thus far before the old Virginian had raised himself upright in his chair and was listening with all his keenly-critical ears to the sweetest music he had ever heard.
Josephine sang for love of singing. She could no more help it than a bird could, for song came to her as naturally as to it. Her voice was birdlike, too, in its clearness and compass, and true in every note.
"Do you like that song, Uncle Joe?" she asked.
"Like it? It's wonderful. Child, who trained you?"
