“I am fond of ‘Robin Adair,’” said the widow; “but few people can render those beautiful words to satisfaction.”
Letitia volunteered to try. She sat down to the piano; her accompaniment was fresh and rippling, her voice clear, not particularly strong, but wonderfully true. It had a note of sympathy in it too, which rang through the old room.
Mrs. Chetwynd put down her knitting with a sigh of pleasure. The two girls sat with their hands lying idly in their laps, and gazed at their cousin.
When the old ballad came to an end, Mrs. Chetwynd felt tears not far from her eyes.
Oh, if only Eileen and Marjorie were like Letitia!
Marjorie suddenly jumped to her feet.
“Are you crying, mother?” she said, going up to her mother. “Oh, it’s just like that wicked Lettie. To hear her sing you would suppose that she was the most sentimental creature in the world: but don’t you believe a word of it, mammy. She has not one scrap of sentiment in her composition; she is the most worldly-wise little soul that I have ever come across.—Now, Lettie, don’t be a humbug; sing something in which your real feelings appear—a modern love-song, for instance, or something
about fine dress, or nothing to wear, or anything else in your real style. It’s positively wrong of you to deceive mother in the way you are doing.”
Letitia looked gently reproachful. She said she did not know any song about nothing to wear, nor any song either about dress; but she would sing “Shadowland” if Mrs. Chetwynd wished it.
This song again brought the widow to the verge of tears. Lettie then rose and shut the piano.