When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Temple said:
“Judith, my dear, sing us some of your sweet hymns.”
Judith sat down to the piano and in her clear and bell-like soprano sang some old-fashioned hymns, so sweetly and unaffectedly that Throckmorton thought it was like angels singing. The sound of the simple music, the soft light of fire and lamp, the atmosphere of love and courtesy that seemed to breathe over the quaint circle, had a fascination for him. It was the poetry of domestic life. He had often dreamed of what “home” might be, but he had never known it, for that brief married life of his had been too short, too flickering; they were boy and girl lovers, and, before the new life had had time to crystallize, he was left alone. But here he saw the sweet privacy of home, the repose, the family nest, safe and warm. He sighed a little. Money could not buy it, else he would have had it at Millenbeck, comfortable handsome country-house that it was. But here, at this shabby old Barn Elms, it was in perfection, in all its naturalness and simplicity. After all, women were necessary to make a home; even money, with a Sweeney as presiding genius, couldn’t do it.
It was late when they left. Mrs. Temple’s parting was as solemn as her greeting:
“I have done that which I never expected to do, and all because in my heart I can’t but love you, George Throckmorton!”
Throckmorton’s keen pleasure showed in his dark eyes.
“I always knew, if you would only listen to that dear, kind heart of yours, you would forgive the Yankees,” he laughed.