“Maybe you’ll have to,” said Molly. “Grown-up people can’t always do just as they like. Papa didn’t want to go to China and leave us all, but he had to, and Lizzie didn’t want to go away. Listen, the lady next door is beginning to sing.”
Maud’s face brightened.
“I’m glad,” she said. “She always sings hymns on Sunday. I wonder why she doesn’t go to church. Maybe she’s sick, too.”
For ten minutes the room was very still, while the two children listened to the music, which reached them distinctly through the party wall. Then Maud began to show signs of restlessness again.
“I wish she’d sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer,’” she complained, fretfully. “‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ is my favorite hymn; it’s got such a nice, lively tune. She ’most always sings it on Sunday.”
“Perhaps she will in a little while,” said Molly, and again there was silence. But, contrary to their expectations, the lady next door did not sing “Only an Armor-Bearer,” and after a few minutes the music ceased.
“O dear!” cried Maud, “now she’s stopped, and I did want ‘Only an Armor-Bearer’ so much. Can’t we ask her to sing some more?”
“Why, Maud, how could we? We don’t know her. Oh, Maud, don’t begin to cry. You’ll be worse if you do.”
“I am worse now,” declared Maud, seizing eagerly upon this new idea. “I’m much worse. Maybe I’m going to die and go to heaven, like Mamma. If I do you’ll be sorry you wouldn’t ask the lady to sing ‘Only an Armor-Bearer.’”
“But how can I ask her, Maudie? It would be dreadfully rude to call through the wall, and I don’t believe she’d understand, anyway. If I went in next door I should have to ring the bell to get back, and then Mary would see me, and she’d be sure to tell Grandma. Besides, I wouldn’t know whom to ask for. We don’t even know the lady’s name.”