“Suppose you sing for me if you feel well enough, Chitty. I have not heard you for a long time, you only sing when you are out of doors unless some one urges you. I am sleepy, so you can feel as if you were almost entirely alone.”
Sally lifted up her head to watch a gleam of golden sunlight slant through the exquisite cool darkness of the pine branches and to see the long, delicate fingers of the pines tremble in the light winds.
Then suddenly her eyes dropped toward her lap.
If she were not musical, if she were not emotional, if she cared little for the outdoors and more for the sheltered places and life’s serenities, yet the little Lancashire girl’s gift set even her pulses stirring.
Scarcely a proper definition to call the variety of sounds which Chitty poured forth with the ease and unconsciousness of a mocking-bird, singing. There were trills, gay and high and poignant, then a low note like a sob, then light ripples like wind blowing over the water, then bold, straightforward whistles, or the plaintive notes of a wood dove.
Never had the effect been more magical to Sally’s ears.
Then suddenly, without being aware of any particular reason, she turned her eyes and glanced in another direction.
Seated not many yards away and directly facing her was one of the strangest figures she had ever seen. The man was so nearly the color of the bark of the tree that he might have been carved out of wood. His hair and skin were a coppery brown, he had a short beard of the same shade and eyes that were only slightly more brown. He did not look very old, although his clothes were old and shabby. He wore a leather coat and knee breeches and was without a hat. Listening with absolute intensity to Chitty’s music, he seemed scarcely aware of their existence.
When she ceased, he got up and Sally saw that he apparently wished to speak to them, and yet could not make up his mind to alarm them.
As a matter of fact, Sally was not in the least frightened.