Marguerite’s eyes were lustrous with deep feeling. Her words went to the mother’s heart.
“Let me see—find ‘In Memoriam.’ How many times in the last few days I have said over to myself:
“If one should bring me this report
That thou hads’t touched the land today,
And I went down unto the quay,
And found thee lying in the port,”
Marguerite took the beautifully bound volume in her hand and it gave her a thrill.
“Some poems are adapted to this or that one’s voice, like songs. The Major reads Browning and that is saved especially for him. Willard loves Stevenson and Eugene Field’s children’s verses. Zaidee the light gay caroling things, and those arch, sweet Irish poems. But your voice sounded to me as if you loved Tennyson and Whittier.”
“I have not had the opportunity of reading Tennyson very much, but I thought the Christmas verses most beautiful. I hope I shall please you,” hesitatingly.
Mrs. Crawford listened attentively. There was a depth and richness in the voice, an impressive, penetrating emotion that betrayed the harmony with the lines. And when she had finished that poem, she said in a low tone:
“Shall I go on?”
“Yes,” replied the mother.
It was so beautiful that Marguerite forgot herself in the poet’s deep feeling—so human, so comforting—she could have read on until dusk, but Mrs. Crawford turned presently.