Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling, met my astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell one by one down my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and when she ceased, I hid my head between my hands and sobbed aloud. In an instant, she was beside me, and placing her hand upon my shoulder, said,—
“Poor dear boy, I never suspected you of being there, or I should not have sung that mournful air.”
I started and looked up; and from what I know not, but she suddenly crimsoned to her very forehead, while she added in a less assured tone,—
“I hope, Mr. O’Malley, that you are much better; and I trust there is no imprudence in your being here.”
“For the latter, I shall not answer,” said I, with a sickly smile; “but already I feel your music has done me service.”
“Then let me sing more for you.”
“If I am to have a choice, I should say, Sit down, and let me hear you talk to me. My illness and the doctor together have made wild work of my poor brain; but if you will talk to me—”
“Well, then, what shall it be about? Shall I tell you a fairy tale?”
“I need it not; I feel I am in one this instant.”
“Well, then, what say you to a legend; for I am rich in my stores of them?”