While Mr. Broadstreet was peering about for the Shadow, and taking into his heart the lessons it taught, he had not been idle, giving a kind word or a bit of money or a pleasant glance wherever the chance offered.
The Shadow now paused before a narrow doorway in a crooked little street, and the two, or rather the three, for the Shadow went before them, entered and mounted the stairway. Mr. Broadstreet stumbled several times, but the Discouraged Man went up like one who was well used to the premises. As they reached the third landing, a voice somewhere near them commenced to sing feebly, and they stopped to listen.
“It’s Annette,” whispered the Discouraged Man; “she’s singing for me. It was a way she had when we were first married, and I used to like it, coming home from a hard day’s work; so she’s tried to keep it up ever since. Do you hear her, sir?”
Yes, Mr. Broadstreet heard her. Poor, poor little thin voice, trembling weakly on the high notes and avoiding the low ones altogether. It was more like a child’s than a woman’s, and so tired—so tired! He fumbled in his dressing-gown pocket and turned his head away; quite needlessly, for it was very dark.
The two men remained silent for a moment, listening to the echo of the gay young voice with which the little bride used to greet her husband; she, so tender, and loving, and true; he, so strong, and brave, and hopeful for the future! And as they listened, they caught the words:
“Christ was born on Christmas Day,
Wreathe the holly, twine the bay,
Carol Christmas joyfully,
The Babe, the Son, the Holy One of Mary.”