But when the two other children came in to see Arthur, he again
recurred to her singing, which had evidently taken a strong hold upon
his imagination.
"Papa, you must hear her. Mother, sing the song with pretty little
twiddle-twiddles in it--far prettier than Aunt Henrietta's things--
something about warbling in her breath."
"Oh no, not that," said Christian, shrinking involuntarily. What from?
Was it from a ghostly vision of the last time she had sung it--that is
properly, to a piano-forte accompaniment, played by fingers that had
afterward caught hold of _her_ trembling fingers, and been a living
comment on the song? It was that exquisite one from Handel's "Acis
and Galatea:"
_"Love in her eyes sits playing,
And sheds delicious death;
Love on her lips is straying,
And warbling in her breath."_
Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illustrated
that sort of love, the idealization of fancy and feeling, with just a
glimmer of real passion quivering through it--the light cast in advance
by the yet unrisen day.
"Not that song, Arthur. It is rather difficult besides, Papa might not
care to hear it."
"Papa might if he were tried," said Dr. Grey, smiling, "Why not do to
please me what you do to please the children?"
So Christian sang at once--ay, and that very song.
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