It was the way Doodles often rode to bed, and he was soon on the stairs—regretting in a whisper that he had not stopped to brush his hair.
“Your hair’s all right, kiddie,” Blue declared; but the small boy continued silent misgivings realizing that smooth locks were not always looked upon by his brother as essential.
It was a dusky little room which they entered, in chilling contrast to the sunny kitchen they had just left. Caruso sat ruffled on his perch, the picture of gloom.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come!” cried the sick woman. “I’ve wished and wished I could hear that again—‘Jerusalem, the Golden,’ you know.”
She lay quite still through the singing, now gazing at Doodles, now closing her eyes as if weary.
“Thanks,” she said at the end. “It carries me back! Jim liked it so much!” She turned suddenly to Blue, who was sitting on a small trunk, Doodles having been put into the only chair. “Do you know what a beautiful voice your brother has?”
“Has he?” smiled Blue. “I like to hear him sing.”
“Oh, but it’s a wonderful voice! Never taken lessons, has he?”
“No,” Blue told her.
“He ought to. But there’s time enough, time enough. Sing something else!”