“Anything will please me, only stop before you are tired.”
“Let me see,” she said with one of her rare smiles. “Hernando is a Spanish name. Now close your eyes and imagine yourself a wee boy, while I sing you to sleep.”
Touching the strings gently, they responded with a rocking motion and her voice rose and fell in the words of an old Spanish Folk Song:
“Little shoes are sold at the gateway of Heaven
And to all the tattered little angels are given.
Slumber, my darling, slumber, my darling,
Slumber, my darling do-do,
Dodo—Dodo—
Ave Maria—Dodo.”
Many, many times before had Hernando heard it; but now, to the instinct of motherhood in the breast of all true women were added the exact intonation and subtle potential moods of the artiste. Hernando’s keen musical feelings revelled in the liquid notes of the singer’s voice so perfectly attuned to the throbbing strings.