“Why don’t you mail your letters down stairs?”

“I’ll step around to the branch post office; they’ll go quicker.... What was that air you were playing just now?”

“It is called ‘Mea Culpa.’”

“Play it again.”

She turned to the keys, recommenced the Celtic air, and sang in a clear, childish voice:

“Wake, little maid!

Red dawns the morn,

The last stars fade,

The day is born;

Now the first lark wings high in air,