He said to himself that she had only made him think of love again—love that had grown a stranger to his heart, though once as sweet and welcome as the song she sang.
She rested a few moments, without observing her rapt listeners, then the sweet voice rose again, following the chords of the mandolin:
“Beneath the trees together
They wandered hand in hand,
Oh, it was summer weather,
And Love was in the land;
Their hearts were light,
The sun shone bright,
And as they went along,
With voices sweetly mingled,