Davies smiled gravely and said no, he feared that he was too old and awkward to learn even at the Point, but that Mrs. Davies was very fond of dancing, and by and by, perhaps, they would attend. Then the chat flowed merrily on, of the lovely time that they had all enjoyed,—that is, the garrison people had enjoyed all summer, and the pleasant associations they had formed with the gentlemen from town, and how much lovelier it would be now. And while they were talking, through the thin partition which separated Mr. Boynton's official and personal quarters from those of Lieutenant and Adjutant Leonard there came the sound of sacred music,—Mrs. Leonard at her piano, her clear, true voice blending with the deep resonant bass of her soldier husband and the sweet treble of the children, and Davies stopped to listen. It was a hymn his father loved, one they often sang at the old church at home,—
"Son of my soul, Thou Saviour dear."
It brought sweet and sacred memories. It spoke of home and holy influences, of mother love and father's blessing and children's hope and faith. It filled his heart with reverence and his eyes with tears. The babble and chat for an instant were silenced, and then Mrs. Darling spoke.
"The worst of these army quarters is that you can hear just what's going on next door; but," she added, cheerfully, "you'll soon be where you won't be bothered on one side, at least."
Sanders gave a queer, quick glance at the speaker and then at Davies. Jervis plunged into an immediate rhapsody on the subject of Mrs. Leonard's children, whom he declared to be the best little beggars he ever knew, unless it was Cranston's. "Of course," he added, diplomatically, "I can safely praise them in your presence, ladies, as you have none of your own."
Then conversation languished, for Davies was silent and Mrs. Davies uninspired. The visitors left and went laughing down the row, their gay voices ringing in the frosty air.
"How long had they been here, dear?" asked Davies as he returned to the fireside.
"The ladies? Oh, I don't know. Quite a little while. They were so interested in everything,—so friendly. I quite forgot my headache while they were here. Now it seems to be coming on again, and if you don't mind I think I won't sit up,—unless somebody else is coming."
"There will hardly be any more callers to-night," he answered, gravely. "If your head aches you might be better for going early to bed, and I will sit here and read awhile."
But the wandering thoughts refused to be chained to the page before him. His heart was full and vaguely troubled. "I shall be better for a turn in the cold air," he thought, and so, throwing his cape over his shoulders, he quietly left the house.