I gave my love a little dove,
Around its neck a feathery ring,
Because a ring betokens love,
And love to my sweet love I bring.
And in return what gave my love
Of all the precious gifts that be?
No rose, nor key, nor ring-necked dove—
She gave but her sweet self to me!"
Mrs. Carrington and Augusta murmured polite applause, though they thoroughly disapproved of the words. They said they had heard the song before, though they could not recall when, or by whom, it had been sung.
Ellen could have told them. Poor Ellen! The gay young cousin had sung it, sung it to her in those far-off days that now were as a faint, impossible dream. She herself had copied the music and the words with an etching pen, and purposely had buried the manuscript at the bottom of the ottoman where for so long she had guarded it jealously. Only on the rare occasions when she was alone in the house did she take it out and tinkle the accompaniment, whispering the words. It seemed a sort of sacrilege to Ellen that the song should have been exhumed by the careless Stella to be sung with zest in a loud voice that destroyed the echo of the beautiful tenor, the remembrance of which caused her heart to ache and brought tears to her eyes.