Doan ye weep no mo’
Mammy’s gwine to hold her baby
All de udder black trash sleepin’ on de flo’
Mammy only lubs her boy.”
When they had finished and while the ’cello still hummed on, she whispered,
“He’s asleep. That song always lulls him to sleep.”
She rose and beckoned him to follow. He turned to the old man. He was breathing regularly. He loosened his fingers and crept across the room, closing the door behind him. Miss Van Patten had waited for him at the head of the stairs.
“I shall never forget this hour,” he said.
“I played the things he enjoys.”
“What did the songs themselves matter?” he burst out.