"I wonder if he knows he has an audience," said the Daughter of the House, in a very low tone.
"He knows it is impolite to interrupt the story," said her father. "No; there he goes!"
And, sure enough, the bird, having decided that on the whole it would help matters in whatever direction he wished them to be helped, sang out, clear and loud, what seemed to his audience the most delightful song he had yet given them.
When he had finished, the Next Neighbor said: "That was so full of soul I hate to go on with my very material story."
"It strikes me," said the Old Professor, "that there is a good deal of soul in your story."
"Thank you," said the Next Neighbor, as she again took up the thread of her narrative.
"That evening, prompted by a sudden impulse, I went up to Bernard, and, looking into his face, I declared that I would never leave him.
"'What!' he exclaimed. 'Has any one been asking you to leave me?'
"'Of course not,' said I, a little irritated—he has such queer ways of taking what I say. 'I mean I am not going to die before you do. I am not going to leave you in this world to take care of yourself.'
"He looked at me as though he did not understand me, and I do not suppose he did, although he only said: 'I am delighted to hear that, my dear girl. But how are you going to manage it? How about that hereditary disease you were talking of the other day?'