'GOD'S PEACE' 335
own hearts, and their murmured admiration sets all their old heads nodding.
The room grows quiet as the grave when Greta sits down at the harmonium, strikes a few notes and starts her song. The air in the low, crowded room is thick and heavy. Through it the notes ripple clear as dew, ascend like twittering birds, twinkle like merry sunrays, spread around a fra- grance of wood and field, building above the heads of the old women an azure dome. They are old songs, sweetly sentimental, gaily gentle songs from our mothers' and grandmothers' days, that Greta sings. The old people are listening; these songs make strings long since untouched vibrate within them, and gradually all the old lips are moving, and the frilled caps are keeping time to Greta's song. The songs about love's joy and love's pain are those that find the most responsive echo. For every kiss on rosy lips happy smiles pass over the wrinkled faces, but, when pale cheeks are bathed in tears, tears also fill a hundred old eyes.
My seat is at the back of the room, near that of my friend. She, who is otherwise never lacking in words, seems now so moved she can hardly speak, but she pats my hand incessantly. When Greta at last leaves the harmonium and is surrounded by thanking, hand-kissing, courtesying and blessing old women, my friend says these words, for which I could have kissed her : 'Dear me, dear me, how like she is to his blessed mother.'
