The Hebrew nodded and smiled and stayed.
There was one surprise connected with the very informal exercises of the afternoon and that was the gift by Mrs. Hughson on behalf of the people generally of a rouleau made up of one hundred gold dollars.
“May your pathway to heaven be paved wid ’em,” said the irrepressible Pat, stepping up and shaking hands with her.
“Thank you, sir,” said she, and Pat walked off with his head in the air and brimming over with good feeling—and suppressed oaths.
“Won’t you sing your song, Mrs. Hartlett?” asked Cherry.
“I’m afraid I’m not in very good voice to-day,” said the old lady with an exaggerated simper and then she hastened to say, “That’s what people used to say when I was a girl. There was much more singing then than there is now, but it was always considered right to apologise for one’s voice.”
She cleared her throat and then she turned to the doctor, who sat near her, and said, “I wanted to dance, to-day, but Dr. Ludlow says that at my age the less I dance the better for my health—and I dare say he is right.”
She looked at the doctor, her eyes twinkling, and then she sang a strange old song that I had never heard before. It was sung to a quaint air that might have been by Purcell and that told of what befell the daughters of a king who lived up in the “North countree:”
“‘The king lived up in the North Countree
“‘Bow down downaday