Anyhow, the house reached out
for Miss Emmeline as with hands and laid its spell upon her
enduringly.
She sat beside me, with Alicia's pet album of Confederate generals
on her knees.
"I never thought I'd have a sentimental regard for rebels," she
confessed. "But, oh, they were gallant and romantic figures, when
one looks at their old photographs here in Hynds House. I am
Massachusetts to the bone, but I don't want to hear 'Marching
through Georgia' while I'm here!"
Mr. Jelnik, overhearing her, laughed. "Perhaps I may find for you
something more in keeping with Hynds House," he said, and sauntered
over to the old piano. Unexpectedly it came to life. And he began to
sing:
It was the silent, solemn hour
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.
The Author shaded his eyes with his hand, his gaze riveted upon the
singer. Alicia leaned forward, lips parted, face like an uplifted
flower, eyes large with wonder and delight.
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