and nobody had the heart to wake them; but when, the dish-washing quickly dispatched by our many hands, the rest of us had gathered together in the little sitting-room—furnished with a cottage piano, a few chairs, a big pile of music, and very little else—and Dad had begun to play (one of Schubert’s Moments Musicaux, if you please!) one by one the missing members all crept in on tiptoe, rubbing their eyes, and murmuring under their breaths, “That’s it!” “Go it, Dad!” or “That’s good!”
The Schubert ended, he began a glee; upon which the whole family, except mother, who sat nodding her head while she knitted, but more, I fancied, in maternal than musical appreciation, burst spontaneously into voice, taking the parts and singing them together as though they had but one soul between them. Every note rang true, round, and rich, and Eva especially really had a beautiful contralto. After the glee, Bruv brought out a violin, Benny a ’cello, and Flo took her father’s place at the piano, and played their accompaniment. Real music it was; the whole family had evidently a natural gift. Nobody spoke, every one was hanging on sweet sound. It was good to look round on all those absorbed faces; it was fine to feel that uplifted ending to a day that, arduous with toil, had nevertheless throughout been made lively with interest and sweet with love. Perhaps they did not actually “live so bad” after all, these individual sons and daughters of the soil?
And then it was Good-bye, said lingeringly, and with regret. One felt for Dad, going back into exile. A load of butter and some apples were packed into the back of the gig, last congratulations
