“And you, did you make some music, too?”
“I began to learn the piano and the violin, but—now——”
“You have it with you, the father’s violin?” asked Mr. Todd eagerly.
Ellen shook her head. “No, it went with the piano and everything else.”
“Too bad, too bad,” Mr. Todd shook his shaggy gray head. “Perhaps—we’ll see. At any rate there is Schumann to talk about. You have the songs, maybe.”
“Those I still have; they are in my mother’s trunk which is to be sent to me here.”
“Good! Some day——”
But here a shrill voice interrupted: “Jeremy, Jeremy, where are you? Hanging over the fence dawdling away your time. I thought you were going to dig those turnips.”
“Yes, dear, I’ll do it right away,” answered the man’s gentle voice. He turned to Ellen, shaking his head. “Turnips and Schumann! Never mind, we will have another talk soon. Good-by—Ellen, did you say? I am glad you have come, child. We shall be good friends.” He went off, and Ellen noticed that he limped slightly.
Lugging the tomatoes, she went back to the house. “There is quite a lot,” she said, setting the basket down. “What do you think, Cousin Rindy, I have been talking to Mr. Todd. Isn’t he a dear?”