She bent her head with an air of preoccupation for a moment, her face wholly serious, before she began:
“Say, oh say, what wondrous dreamings—”
She did not turn at once when the song was done, but sat for a moment very still. She rose smiling.
“Well, there has been music—of a kind, mon oncle. Don’t you fiddle or do something, Mr. Leighton? I oughtn’t to be made the only victim. No! Nothing more from me! That is always my finale.”
Rodney Merriam had come into the room and he took her cheeks between his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
“I wish I could say it, dear. It’s too much—too much—to think of, and a little kid like you!”
The tears glistened in his eyes, but he smiled happily; it did not often happen in Rodney Merriam’s life that a smile caught tears on his dark face.
“Dear Uncle Rodney,” she said, and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Let’s get out of this,” said the old gentleman. “The place is sacred to your singing hereafter.” He led the way into the library and poked the fire until it crackled and leaped into the chimney in the way that he liked it.
“We must go home,” Mrs. Forrest announced presently.