“Where is she now, my girl?”
“She's 'ere, Father.”
“Hush!” said Glory, coming back to the room. “The doctor says you are not to talk so much.”
“Then let me look at you, Glory. Sit here—here—and if I should seem to be suffering you must not mind that, because I am really very happy.”
Just then an organ-man in the street began to play. Glory thought the music might disturb John, and she was going to send Aggie to stop it. But his face brightened and he said: “Sing for me, Glory. Let me hear your voice.”
The organ was playing a “coon song,” and she sang the words of it. They were simple words, childish words, almost babyish, but full of tenderness and love. The little black boy could think of nothing but his Loo-loo. In the night when he was sleeping he awoke and he was weeping, for he was always, always dreaming of his Loo-loo, his Loo-loo!
When the song was finished they took hands and talked in whispers, though they were alone in the room now, and nobody could hear them. His white face was very bright, and her moist eyes were full of merriment. They grew foolish in their tenderness and played with each other like little children. There were recollections of their early life in the little island home, memories of years concentrated into an hour—humorous stories and touches of mimicry. “'O Lord, open thou our lips——Where are you, Neilus?' 'Aw, here I am, your riverence, and my tongue shall shew forth thy praise.'”
All at once John's face saddened and he said, “It's a pity, though!”
“A pity!”