Ah! but the frown is gone! There is a look of supplication now. Sing no more! Oh, sing no more! Yes, surely, she will stop there!
No. The voice rises gently—just a little—into the higher key, soft and clear as the note of a distant bird, and all unaware of a listener. Oh! in mercy’s name—
“In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of granite so gray,
And sweet Alice lies under the stone.”
The little toiling figure bent once more across the wash-board and began to rub. He turned, the first dew of many a long year welling from each eye, and stole away, out of the little yard and down the dark, slippery alley, to the street.
Mrs. Riley still stood on the door-sill, holding the child.
“Good-evening, madam!”
“Sur, to you.” She bowed with dignity.
“Is Mrs. Richling in?”
There was a shadow of triumph in her faint smile.
“She is.”