It entered his consciousness with the force of a knockdown blow; he
could hardly stand up against it. Usually he sang or whistled as he
dressed himself, and this was so much a habit of his nature that it
passed without notice in his household. Once, indeed, his father had
fretfully alluded to it, saying, "Singing out of time is always singing
out of tune," and Mrs. Hatton had promptly answered,
"Keep thyself to thyself, Stephen. Singing beats grumbling all to
pieces. Give me the man who _can_ sing at six o'clock in the morning. He
is worth trusting and loving, I'll warrant that. I wish thou would sing
thyself. Happen it might sweeten thee a bit." And Stephen Hatton had
kept himself to himself, about John's early singing thereafter.
This morning there was no song in John's heart and no song on his lips.
He dressed silently and rapidly as if he was in a hurry to do something
and yet he did not know what to do. His mother's positive assertion,
that the best way out of the difficulty was to let it solve itself, did
not satisfy him.
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