"
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "You're always thinking about
other people's comfort, Sophy." She paused, and looked at me
half-questioningly:
"I wish he had somebody to look after him," she said in a low voice,
"somebody like you." She added, as if to herself: "He takes two
lumps of sugar in his coffee, one in his tea, wants dry toast, and
likes his omelet _buttered_."
And when I stared at her, she slipped nearer, and laid her cheek
against mine.
"Sophy," in a soft whisper, "you've made up to me for my father and
my mother, and for the sisters and brothers I never had. We're all
sorts and conditions of folks, aren't we, Sophy?--but none like you,
Sophy; not any one of them all like you!"
At that moment, through the open window, there stole in on the night
air the faintest whisper of music. It wasn't mournful, it wasn't
joyful, but both together; a singing voice, a crying voice, wild and
sweet, part of the night and the trees and the wind, and part, I
think, of the secretest something in the human heart. We had no idea
where it came from; out of the sky, perhaps!
Somebody ran down-stairs, and a moment later the front door opened
softly.
Pages:
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184