When he rose it was almost dusk, and he came back to the present
world with a start. His first thought was of Ruth and the rapturous
prospect of seeing her on the morrow; a swift doubt followed as to
whether a white tie or a black one was proper; then a sudden fear that
he had forgotten how to dance. He jumped to his feet, took a couple of
steps--when he remembered Martha.
The house seemed suddenly quiet and lonesome. He went from the
sitting-room to the kitchen, but neither Mrs. Hollis nor Aunt Melvy
was to be found. Returning through the front hall, he opened the door
to the parlor.
The sight that met him was somewhat gruesome. Everything was carefully
wrapped in newspapers. Pictures enveloped in newspapers hung on the
walls, newspaper chairs stood primly around a newspaper table. In the
dim twilight it looked like the very ghost of a room.
Sandy threw open the window, and going over to the newspaper piano,
untied the wrappings. He softly touched the keys and began to sing in
an undertone. Old Irish love-songs, asleep in his heart since they
were first dropped there by the merry mother lips, stirred and awoke.
The accompaniment limped along lamely enough; but the singer, with hat
over his eyes and lemon-juice on his nose, sang on as only a poet and
lover can.
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