Hannibal St. John was not musical. There were only four tunes, and three of them were variations of “Carry Me Back to Old Virginia,” that he recognized when he heard them. As he lay on his bed of pain, he heard the shrill whistle of his gardener piping in the garden below. Unconsciously the senator’s well hand marked the time. All day, as he came and went about his business, the gardener kept whistling that tune, and the senator heard and reheard ever with increasing pleasure. And this was an extraordinary thing, for it was as difficult or nearly so to move Hannibal St. John with music as it must have been for Orpheus to get himself approached by rocks and stones and trees, and far more difficult than it ever was for the Pied Piper to achieve a following of brats and rats.
Margaret had been for a drive with a girl friend. She came home and to her father’s side in great spirits.
“Oh, papa,” she cried, “will you do me a favor?”
She read consent.
“Claire has got the wonderfulest song, and I want you to let her come in and sing it for you.”
“A song?” said the senator, doubtfully.
“Papa de-e-ear, please.”
He smiled grimly.
“If Claire will not be shocked by my appearance,” he said against hope.
“Rubbish,” cried Margaret, and flew out of the room.