"Shall we have some music now?"
"Oh, by all means!" said David politely, wondering how much credence he ought to place in the advance notices.
They went into the parlor, where Jonathan turned to Miss Summers, "Do you feel like singing this evening?"
"Yes," she said, and went at once to the piano.
She played a few chords softly. And then her voice rose in a low crooning note that went straight to David's heart.
For she sang as the thrush sings—because God had put music in her heart and shaped her throat to give forth pure rich liquid sounds and meant her to be revealed through song. And that evening, in the simple little slumber song she sang first, there was no faltering or roughened note to tell that part of her gift had been taken from her. While she sang, there was nothing in the world but melody and the rest of which she sang . . . and the singer.
She ended. But over at least one of her audience the spell of her voice lingered. For a long moment David sat motionless, lips parted, staring wonderingly at her, even after she had swung around to face them.
"Why—" he stammered foolishly. "Why—I didn't think—"
The rose pink in her cheeks became rose madder and it was easy to see that she was happy over something. "Oh," she said, "it just happens to be one of my good days. Sometimes my voice leaves me in the middle of a note and lets me down flat." She laughed, as though there were humor in that.
David did not laugh. He saw no humor in that. He could not believe that it had ever happened. . . .