"
I had forgotten Mother and Father Beckett--even Brian--everyone except
my lost Jim Wyndham and myself. But suddenly a touch on my hand made me
start. The little old lady's, small, cool fingers were on mine, "My
daughter, what do the words mean?" she asked. "What is that boy saying
to his mama?" Her eyes were blue lakes of unshed tears, for the thought
of her son knocked at her heart.
"It isn't a boy who sings, dear," I said. "It's supposed to be a young
man who tries to tell his mother all about his love, but it is too big
for any words he can find. He says she must remember how she felt
herself when she was in love, and then she will understand what's in his
heart."
"Oh, it's wonderful!" she whispered. "How _young_ it sounds! Can it be
a _man_ singing? It seems too beautiful for anything but a gramophone!"
We broke out laughing, and the little lady blushed in shame. "I mean,
it's like one of the great singers they make records of," she explained.
"There, he's stopped. Oh, James, don't let him go! We _must_ hear him
again. Couldn't you go next door and thank him? Couldn't you beg him to
sing some more?"
An Englishman would sooner have died a painful death then obey; but,
unabashed, the American husband flung wide open the folding doors.
At the piano sat the short, square-built young man of the Red Cross
taxi. Leaning with both elbows on the instrument stood the doll-like
figure of his companion, the girl in nurse's dress.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85