Brigit sat down by the bed and laid her hand in Tommy's.
It was a simple nursery melody that Joyselle played:
"Il etait une bergère, hé ron ron ron, petit pa-ta-pon——" She had known it all her life, but to Tommy, who had always sternly refused to have anything to do with the French governesses his mother had got for him, it was new.
He listened with an intent frown, the fingers of his left hand curled inwards and moving as though he were trying to follow the air on imaginary strings.
Then as Joyselle went on to the delightful Pont d'Avignon, his hand relaxed, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
The room was nearly dark, and rain beat in gusts on the windows.
"Fais dodo," sang the fiddle softly, "fais dodo."
"I like that. Play it again. Ah, Master—it is you. I am so glad——"
Joyselle did not stop, but he smiled down at the boy as he played on very softly. "Of course it is I. I am delighted to see you so much better. Do you know 'Ma Normandie'? This is it——"
Tommy moved a little and settled his head more comfortably.