Mrs. Slinker laughed. A song, like any other work of art, can only give you what you bring to it, and Savaury had never needed to shroud his soul from Petronilla—Petronilla and her Pope Joan bowl, framed in her old-world hall.
“Sing again!” Savaury commanded; and she sang—
“All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road;
All in the April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.