"I 'll have that rint, Tom Moore, song or no song," interrupted Mrs. Malone, but her tone was not quite so quarrelsome as before, and Moore from this drew encouragement that lent double sympathy to his music as he continued:
"Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste--"
"I wants me rint," remarked Mrs. Malone, but her voice had lost its assertive defiance.
"'T was odor fled
As soon as shed--"
"I 'll have me rint, Tom Moore," said the landlady plaintively.
"'Twas morning's wingéd dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,
On life's dull stream--"
An audible sniff came from beneath the frill of Mrs. Malone's cap and she cleared her throat noisily. Moore leaned over her and tenderly and slowly breathed forth the last words of his song, the mournful cadences stealing from his lips sweet and low and laden with tears, supremely touching in their plaintive harmony, for he sang as though it was to the hopeless love that filled his heart's innermost recess that he now gave utterance.
"No, there 's nothing half so sweet in life
As Love's young dream."
The last words died away, and for a moment the old attic was silent. Then Mrs. Malone rose from her seat with a stifled sob, and, wiping her eyes, started toward the door.
"And the rent, Mrs. Malone?" asked Moore, timidly.