“Oh, yes, I do—oh, yes, I do,” said the bailiff, nodding his head. “Of course it would, mother.”
“Yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going about the house in that heart-breaking way.”
“Humph! Of course, and for me too.”
“No, James, you’re at home so little. You have your meals and sit with me of an evening, and at such times there’s something going on to make the poor dear busy. But as soon as you’re out of sight it has been dreadful again. I’ve seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than you have, and there have been times when—”
“Heart-breaking! Stuff and nonsense!” cried James Ellis petulantly.
“Ah, you don’t know,” said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly.
“Don’t know what, you silly woman? There, that sounds like heart-breaking, doesn’t it?”
For at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of Mary’s voice singing the old English song, “Robin Adair”; and as the notes reached his ear, James Ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune.
“Rob—in—er—her—dair,” sang James Ellis. “Well done, little lassie! Talk about a voice, mother, why it’s as sweet as a bird’s.”
“Yes, dear, but I wish she wouldn’t sing such sad things—it puts me in mind of the robins in the autumn time.”