Connie’s colour heightened. “For me?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes, some reading matter.”
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, as her quick fingers unwrapped the package. She cried aloud with delight as half a dozen novels and as many magazines were disclosed to view.
“And here, Andy, is a present for you,” said Donald as he dragged a box from the corner; “something to assist in passing away the time pleasantly.”
Andy’s joy knew no bounds when, opening the box, a superb Victrola was disclosed to view.
Suddenly the sweet strains of a full orchestra playing the “Barcarolle” filled the room. Connie was enraptured. She stood with bowed head and closed eyes, her hands pressed to her throbbing breast, as the music stirred her emotional soul to its depths. She sighed deeply and her cheeks were wet with tears as she moved to the machine when the music ceased.
They all sang the chorus to the “Old Oaken Bucket,” “Suwannee River” and “Annie Laurie.” Connie’s embarrassment had vanished and her clear voice rang in sweet harmony with the deeper tones of the men.
At the conclusion of “Home Sweet Home,” old John Hillier blew his nose vigorously and surreptitiously dabbed the big red handkerchief to his eyes.
The words of “A Dream,” sung in an impassioned tenor voice, came with surprising distinctness:
“I dreamed thou wert living, my darling, my darling,