Oh, I want you to sing a piece for me--just one,
won't you, dearie? Sing that piece people like to hear you sing best.
I forget the name, but I've read about it in the papers.
Sing it for me, little Joscelyn."
And Joscelyn, standing by Aunty Nan's bed, in the sunset light,
sang the song she had sung to many a brilliant audience on many
a noted concert-platform--sang it as even she had never sung before,
while Aunty Nan lay and listened beatifically, and downstairs
even Mrs. William held her breath, entranced by the exquisite
melody that floated through the old farmhouse.
"O, little Joscelyn!" breathed Aunty Nan in rapture, when the song ended.
Joscelyn knelt by her again and they had a long talk of old days.
One by one they recalled the memories of that vanished summer.
The past gave up its tears and its laughter. Heart and fancy alike went
roaming through the ways of the long ago. Aunty Nan was perfectly happy.
And then Joscelyn told her all the story of her struggles and triumphs
since they had parted.
When the moonlight began to creep in through the low window,
Aunty Nan put out her hand and touched Joscelyn's bowed head.
"Little Joscelyn," she whispered, "if it ain't asking too much,
I want you to sing just one other piece.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147