"I expect you are very fond of music."
"Not of Cousin Meta's. She doesn't know how to make the piano speak. She rattles and bangs, and makes a jolly noise, but Cousin Leslie can make it whisper. We are quite quiet sometimes, and we pretend we're inside a big church just before the organ begins, and then the people are praying, and the piano hushes and hushes, and then a very soft whisper sounds, and it goes on, and then goes up in the air—up—up—up—and dies away—for it has gone up straight to God, and it is a poor sinner's prayer."
Jean longed to catch the sweet rapt look on Sunnie's face, but she was busy with the outlines of her figure, and trusted that later on, when she needed it, that same expression would cross the child's face again.
"Go on," she said, "tell me more. I should like to hear this wonderful music."
"I don't know that Cousin Leslie would do it with you in the room. He always stops when mother comes in. We have all kinds of music and stories when we're together, funny ones and sad ones and good ones. We have fairies' music, and angels' music, and dance music, and thunder and lightning."
"And which music do you like best?" Jean asked, as Sunnie paused for breath.
"Oh," she said, gazing dreamily into the fire, "I like angels' music the best."
"Why?"
"Because it reminds me of my good time coming," said Sunnie, quaintly.
"And when is that?"