About ten o'clock or so that night, after Isabel thought I'd turned in, I stole out of Gram's room on the first floor and sat outside a spell and had another pipe.
There was a light in the kitchen and I could hear Isabel movin' 'round in there. I discovered when I walked over that way that she was mixin' bread, not goin' about it listless, the way she used to work, but real smart and in-a-hurry.
I stopped still a minute in my tracks. Isabel was hummin' a little low song without much tune to it, to herself. As I stood there quiet, listenin' to the sort of purrin' sound she made, floatin' around the little kitchen, tender and caressin', and driftin' out shy to where I was, it came over me that Isabel's talkin'-machine couldn't play anything sweeter to listen to, I guessed, than that low rumble comin' out of her own throat. There isn't any sweeter music under God's heaven, I think, than a woman hummin' to herself, unconscious-like, the way they do over their work, sometimes, when their hearts feel kind o' soft and happy inside 'em.
After I'd listened for five minutes or so, I went up close to the open window and spoke.
"That's your prettiest record, Isabel," I said, gentle.
