For a few seconds David looked puzzled, and then threw back his head, and, for the first time since he had been at Plasencia, laughed aloud.
“That’s offly good,” he cried.
But Caroline was not the only singer of Handel. As they crossed the lawn, Jollypot could be heard singing to the cottage piano in the old schoolroom, For He shall feed His flock like a Shepherd.
Among the many traces of Protestantism that had clung to her was a craving for hymns at dusk on Sundays; but being debarred from Hymns Ancient and Modern she had to fall back upon Handel.
And He shall feed His flock like a she-e-e-e-e-perd.
Her small, sweet voice, like the silver hammer of a gnome, beat out the words of the prophet, to which Handel’s sturdy melody—so square, so steady on its feet—lent an almost insolent confidence.
And He shall feed His flock like a she-e-e-e-e-perd....
“Is that—is that the wee lady?” asked David, gently.
Teresa nodded.
They stood still and listened; Teresa was smiling, a little sadly: the old optimists, Isaiah and Handel, had certainly succeeded in cozening Jollypot’s papa; for on a living worth £200 a year and no private means he had begotten seven daughters. Nevertheless, the little voice went on unfalteringly.