As we rose from the table, Zillah asked innocently:
"Emily, is thee crying or laughing?"
"I hardly know myself," she faltered, and went hastily to her room; but she soon came down again, looking very resolute.
"Emily," said Mr. Yocomb, "since thee and mother doesn't think music's wicked, I have a wonderful desire to hear thee sing again, 'Tell me the Old, Old Story,' as thee did on the night of the storm."
In spite of her brave eyes and braver will, her lip trembled.
I was cruel enough to add, "And I would be glad to listen to the
Twelfth Nocturne once more."
For some reason she gave me a swift glance full of reproach.
"I will listen to anything," I said quickly.
Mr. Hearn looked a little like a man who feared that there might be subterranean fires beneath his feet.
"I will not promise more than to be chorister to-night," she said, sitting down to the piano with her back toward us. "Let us have familiar hymns that all can sing. Miss Adah has a sweet voice, and Mr. Morton, no doubt, is hiding his talent in a napkin. There's a book for you, sir. I'm sorry it doesn't contain the music."