“No, ’tain’t!”
But the denial died on his lips as he recognized the voice.
“A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which seek through the world is ne’er met with elsewhere.”
Clear and sweet came the tones, like pearls in their rounded purity. The mother was crying bitterly.
“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain.”
These words came with ringing force, and it seemed to the old folks that Milly, far away in Paris, stretched out her hands to them across the water.
“Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”
The old man was crying too, but the tears of father and mother were not tears of sorrow, for the sting had gone out of their loneliness, and as the music ceased peace fell like a mantle on the little country home.—From The Ladies’ Home Journal.