“Will you sing? Your father asks it.”
“Won’t you ask me, too, Mr. Burleson?”
“Yes.”
“But I want to show you my rose first. Will you come?—it is just a step.”
He walked out into the moonlight with her; they stood silently before the bush which had so capriciously bloomed.
“Now—I will sing for you, Mr. Burleson,” she said, amiably. And they returned to the house, finding not a word to say on the way.
The piano was in decent tune; she sat down, nodding across at her father, and touched a chord or two.
“The same song—the one your mother cared for,” murmured her father.
And she looked at Burleson dreamily, then turned, musing with bent head, sounding a note, a tentative chord. And then she sang.
A dropping chord, lingering like fragrance in the room, a silence, and she rose, looking at her father. But he, dim eyes brooding, lay back unconscious of all save memories awakened by her song. And presently she moved across the room to the veranda, stepping out into the moonlit garden—knowing perfectly well what she was doing, though her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and she heard the quick step on the gravel behind her.