“Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”—twisting her hands—“I dare not.”
“Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the name!). “If you are going to be afraid of me, I shall be afraid of you, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”
He pressed her little hand tightly; he felt her trembling; and then, all at once, in the dusky room, the sweet, low, quivering notes began, at first faint and husky, but gaining strength and volume as they went on. Oh, such a heart-piercing, exquisite air! The words were unintelligible, for she was singing a well-known Irish lament, which, rendered into English, was something like:—
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!
Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!
Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!
How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!
Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!