It pervaded the room; and even my
cold, worldly nature would be touched.
In these dim, shadowy hours, when Nature seemed to stand still,
breathless, waiting for the coming darkness, if I longed for anything,
it was for a voice to sing. Speech seemed harsh. Yet we often repeated
hymns and ballads. Emily knew a great many, and, after saying them over,
would dwell upon them, drawing the most beautiful meanings from passages
which to me had seemed obscure, and sometimes talked like one inspired.
I felt that these seasons were my salvation,--were saving me from my
worldliness. Still, I sometimes had a guilty feeling, as if I were
drawing from Emily her beautiful life,--as if I were getting something
to which I had no right, something too good for me,--as if she might
exclaim, at any moment, "Virtue is gone out from me!"
But Mary Ellen could sing. That was good. She knew hymns by dozens, and
tunes to them all, both old and new. Besides these, she could sing
love-songs and quaint old ballads, that nobody ever heard before.
After she came, we had music to our twilights.
David, of course, was a listener.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248