The whole family clustered round the piano, Kitty and Will and Hugh close beside Bell, Hildegarde and Gertrude looking over their shoulders, while Phil and Gerald did what the latter called the giraffe act in the background. And then they sang! One song after another, each choosing in turn, the chorus rolling out nobly, in such splendid songs as "October," "A-hunting we will go," and "John Peel." Then Hildegarde must sing "Annie Laurie" for the Colonel, and she sang it in a way that brought tears to the eyes of the ladies, and made the Colonel himself cough a good deal, and go to the window to study the weather.
"Ah, Colonel Ferrers," said Hildegarde, when the sweet notes had died away, and it was time for the silence to be broken, "where is the lad who should play that for us, better than any human voice could sing it? When shall we have our Jack home again?"
The Colonel hummed and hawed, and said it was absurd to suppose that any fiddle, however inoffensive,—and he acknowledged that his nephew's fiddle gave as little offence as any he had ever heard,—still it was absurd to think for an instant that it could be compared with the sound of the human voice.
"Give me a young woman's voice, my dear madam," he said, turning to Mrs. Grahame; "give me that organ, singing a song with melody and feeling in it,—none of your discordant Dutch cobwebs, none of your Italian squalling, or your French caterwauling, but a song,—a thing which is necessarily in the English language,—and I ask nothing more,—except that the singer be young and good-looking."
"Are you so very reasonable, I wonder, as you think, my dear Colonel?" said Mrs. Grahame, laughing. "Surely we cannot expect that every person who sings shall be beautiful."
"Then she has no business to sing, madam," said the Colonel. "My opinion,—worth nothing, I am aware, from a musical point of view. Now, when I was in Washington last week,—stayed at a friend's house,—delightful people,—very good to the Boy here. Weren't they, Young Sir?"
"They were fountains in the valley!" said Hugh. "They were ducks,—but they quacked, instead of singing."
"Precisely! Exactly! The child has described it, my dear madam. There were two young ladies in the family,—charming girls,—when they kept their mouths shut. The moment they opened them to sing,—a pair of grinning idols. I do not exaggerate, Mrs. Merryweather,—grinning idols, madam!"
"Really!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "How distressing!"
"Distressing? My dear lady, it was excruciating! They opened their mouths—"