Pain came with that recollection, and almost the old bitterness. “I must go home again, and put my resolutions in practice right away, or I shall lose them,” she said to herself. “It won't do for me to stay here and brood over my troubles. I cannot bear loneliness; and how terribly lonely it is here! I wish I had some one to speak to besides poor Aunt Nancy.”
She started, hearing a soft, clear whistling not far away. The strain was familiar, not to this region, but to her city life. While she listened, the sound ceased, or rather broke off suddenly.
Bessie's eyes were wide open, her face flushed. Was there more than one person who could whistle so marvellously clearly and sweetly?
Some one began to sing then more sweetly still, and coming nearer while he sang words written by the most melodious of poets:
“Hark! a lover, binding sheaves,
To his maiden sings;
Flutter, flutter go the leaves,
Larks drop their wings.
Little brooks, for all their mirth,
Are not blithe as he!