Shall I sing you one of our old
songs?"
The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody of
olden poets--her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed and
quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his childhood,
as when they wandered about over the fields--little children--that
period so recent, yet which seemed so far away, because the opening
heart lives long in a brief space of time. Again, she was to him
little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty. She had done all
by a word--a look; a kind, frank smile, a single glance of confiding
eyes. He loved her more than ever--yes, a thousand times more
strongly, and was calm.
He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every movement,
with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the influence of a charm.
"I think I will try and sing the 'Rose of Glengary,'" she said,
smiling; "you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you loved so
much, and it will make us think of old times--in childhood, you know;
though that is not such old, _old_ time--at least for me," added
Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding than before.
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