She sat two or
three minutes, thinking and looking, as if she waited to see the loved
and lost. There was a rustle, and she started from her revery. It was
only mother, flitting into the room with one of her uneasy glances. But
we were all so still and serious and Sabbath-like, that a look of relief
came over her countenance. She vanished again, and through the window I
saw her join her husband in the meadow.
"There, now, before they come in," said Aunt Clara. "When I was a girl,
I went to singing-school. Dear me! But we will not think of the dead any
more. There was one of the girls,--she thought she had a very good
voice. But she never sings now."
"Why?" asked Jerusha.
"The dear knows. I suppose because she is married. Married people never
sing, I believe. So, girls, if you would keep your voices, you must stay
single. Well, there was one of the boys, he thought _he_ had a good
voice. And he never sings now either."
"Why?" said I.
"O, he's married too. So don't you get cheated into thinking you have
mated a robin. He will turn out a crow, like as any way. I suppose they
both did have good voices, and, for all that I know, they have still.
They were the singing-master's especial wonders and his pattern pieces.
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