“It’s my house. It was my home, but— Oh, well! we’ll see if we can’t make it ‘home’ again, you and I between us. Homesickness is mean, though. I remember the first voyage I ever made. Little thirteen-year-old shaver I was, and—”
He went on to tell of that voyage. It was a long one and the story was long, but he told it well. Supper was ended before he finished. They returned to the library. Instead of sitting in the easy-chair he remained standing.
“Er—Esther,” he said.
“Yes, sir.... Yes, Uncle Foster?”
He rubbed his beard. “I was just going to say,” he went on, awkwardly, “that—er—humph! well, the piano is in the other room—in the parlor. Perhaps you’d like to play on it. I guess it is in tune; the tuner comes every two or three months or so; I hope he earns his money.”
She did not feel like playing.
“Why, if you want me to—” she hesitated.
“I shouldn’t mind. It would be interesting to see how the thing sounds. About all Mother or I ever did was look at it. Of course, if you don’t want to—”
“Yes. Yes, I will. But I can’t play very well.”
“And I shouldn’t know if you did, if that’s any comfort to you. Ellen has lit up the parlor, I guess; I told her to.”