An empty tale, a morning flower
Cut down and withered in an hour.”
There was silence down that long, dark room, where only the dull glow of coals cast an uncertain light about the narrow semicircle. Jeanne’s soul was like a deep pool; it reflected all that came before it. Deeply moved by the strange sad words of other days, she could move her listeners.
Presently her mellow voice rose again:
“Teach me the measure of my days,
Thou Maker of my frame.
I would survey life’s narrow space
And learn how frail I am.
“Such songs as these,” she whispered. “Is it not very strange?”
“Yes,” the little mountain girl replied, catching the spirit of the moment. “And sometimes Ann Rutledge sat before that tall old reed organ and played while they sang together. They—”