To this Elithe did not reply, but asked if she should read or sing to him.
“What will you read?” he said, and she replied, “How would the Gospel and Epistle for the day do, seeing it is Sunday?”
“Oh, go ’way with your Gospel and Epistle. I had enough of them when I was a boy. Sing something.”
“What shall I sing?” Elithe asked, and, after considering a moment, he said: “‘Anna Rooney’ is pretty good. Know it?”
Elithe was horrified, and showed it in her face.
“Oh, I see,” he continued. “Anna isn’t a Sunday girl. Well, suit yourself: only don’t make it too pious. I’m not that kind.”
Elithe was puzzled till a happy thought came to her like an inspiration, and she began the familiar words,
“Sowing the seed by the wayside fair,
Sowing the seed by the noonday glare.”
The effect was magical. Closing his eyes, the sick man lay perfectly still until she reached the words,