Then Nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and Phil,
who was sitting on the edge of Fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands
with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way.
"Allow me to congratulate you, sir," Fee said earnestly, with shining
eyes. "It is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud
of it and of you."
The rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked
at papa.
"I began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy
voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at
the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago;
just after I met--Margaret. But for her encouragement--her loving
help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been
accomplished. Now it is finished--I am here alone--and she--is far
away--at peace!" Papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly
and shielded his eyes from us.
We were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. And then, soft and
low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from Fee's violin the
sweet strains of Handel's "Largo." The music rose and fell a bar or two,
and then Nannie and Nora and Phil sang together very softly:--
"The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God.
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