“Sing ‘Four-and-twenty,’ Annie; sing ‘Four-and-twenty,’” she said presently.
“Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie,” sang Annie in a low clear voice, without a moment’s hesitation. She went through the old nursery rhyme once—twice. Then Nan interrupted her fretfully—
“Me don’t want dat ’dain; sing ‘Boy Blue,’ Annie.”
Annie sang.
”‘Tree Little Kittens,’ Annie,” interrupted the little voice presently.
For more than two hours Annie knelt by the child, singing nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme, while the bright beautiful eyes were fixed on her face, and the little voice said incessantly—
“Sing, Annie—sing.”
”‘Baby Bun,’ now,” said Nan, when Annie had come almost to the end of her selection.
“Bye baby bunting,
Daddy’s gone a-hunting—
He’s gone to fetch a rabbit-skin,
To place the baby bunting in.”
Over and over and over did Annie sing the words. Whenever, even for a brief moment she paused, Nan said—