“We won’t be sturbous!” said Pollio.
“Can’t we come in a tinty minute?” pleaded Posy, fumbling at the keyhole; while Pollio’s drum tumbled down stairs, rattlety bang.
Instead of answering, Nunky growled like a bear, and roared like a lion; and they were obliged to go at last; for they might have stood all day without getting in. Nunky was a man that couldn’t be coaxed.
But that very evening, when his work was done, he was perfectly lovely, and played for them on his flute. The tune Pollio liked best was “The Shepherd’s Pipe upon the Mountain.” He thought it was a meerschaum like papa’s, and the shepherd was smoking it as he drove his sheep along. Nunky forgot to say he was making his flute sound like a bagpipe.
But the tune Posy liked best was “The Mother’s Prayer,” low and faint at first, then growing clearer and sweeter.
“Well, darling, what does it make you think of?” said Nunky as she sat on his knee, her wee hands folded, and her eyes raised to his face.
“Makes me fink of the heaven-folks,” replied she solemnly. “I wish little Alice would come down here and live again. Me and Pollio, we’d be very glad.”
Alice was a little sister she had never seen.