They stared at the stricken face of
their minister and at the laughing face whose memory they had come to
honor.
And then, when the deathly silence was becoming unbearable, a girl in a
dress like pink sea foam rose from her chair and stepped quietly,
daintily down the room until she stood beside the swaying figure of Jim
Tumley. She placed her hand gently on the little man's arm and turned
to her Green Valley neighbors.
"I shall sing the old songs with him," she said quietly.
She found an armchair and put the docile Jim into it. Then she smiled
at Nan Ainslee and told her what to play.
Nan's fingers touched the keys softly and from the slim throat that
rose like a flower stem from the pink sea foam there rolled out a
great, deep contralto.
It was unbelievable, that rich deep voice. It blotted out
everything--little Jim, the room, all sense of time and place--and
brought to the listeners instead the deep echoes of cathedral aisles,
the holy peace of a still gray day and the joy of coming sunshine. She
sang all the old songs, tenderly, softly. When she could sing no more
and they showered her with smiles and tears and applause, she raised
her hand for silence, for she had something to say.
"I am glad you liked the songs.
Pages:
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273