In the lamplight, I could discern the figure of the musician. She was seated on the piano stool, with her hands clasped in front of her and gazing out through the window into the darkness of the night.
Surely it was a night when hypnotising influences were at work with all of us, for I had not yet seen Jake return; he was evidently still somewhere out on the cliffs communing with the spirits that were in the air.
Suddenly I observed a movement in the room over the way.
Miss Grant had roused herself from her dreaming. She raised her hand and put the fingers I had kissed to her own lips. Then she kissed both her hands to the outside world. She lowered the light of the lamp until only the faintest glow was visible.
She ran her fingers over the piano keys in a ripple of simple harmonies. Sweet and clear came her voice in singing. I caught the lilt of the music and I caught the words of the song:—
A maid there was in the North Coun-tree,
A shy lit-tle, sweet lit-tle maid was she.
She wished and she sighed for she knew-not-who,
So long as he loved her ten-der-lee;
And day by day as the long-ing grow,
Her spin-ning-wheel whirred and the threads wove through.
It whirred, It whirred, It whirred and the threads wove through.
A maid there was in the North Countree;
A gay little, blythe little maid was she.
Her dream of a gallant knight came true.
He wooed her long and so tenderlee.
And, day by day, as their fond love grew,
Her spinning wheel stood with its threads askew;
It stood.—It stood.—It stood with its threads askew.
A maid there was in the North Countree;
A sad little, lone little maid was she.
Her knight seemed fickle and all untrue
As he rode to war at the drummer's dree.
And, day by day, as her sorrow grew,
Her spinning wheel groaned and the threads wove through.
It groaned.—It groaned.—It groaned and the threads wove through.