She stood glancing up at him with her nice eyes, as shy as could be, uncertain whether he was mocking her.
“Do you know, Miss Carey, that I never ask a young lady for a song now. I don’t care to hear the new songs, they are so poor and frivolous: the old ones are worth a king’s ransom. Won’t you oblige me?”
“What shall I sing?”
“The one you have just sung. ‘Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.’”
He drew a chair close, and listened; and seemed lost in thought when it was over. Janet could not conveniently get up without pushing the stool against him, and so sat in silence.
“My mother used to sing that song,” he said, looking up. “I can recall her every note as well as though I had heard her yesterday. ‘As friends remembering not’! Ay: it’s a harsh world—and it grows more harsh and selfish day by day. I don’t think it treats you any too well, Miss Carey.”
“Me, sir?”
“Who remembers you?”
“Not many people. But I have never had any friends to speak of.”
“Will you give me another song? The one I heard Mina ask you for—‘Pray, Goody.’ My mother used to sing that also.”