And
then everything became visible again, but in a magically beautiful
way; it was now like a picture from a fairy-tale. Indeed, this was
the hour when your belief in fairies was most apt to return to you.
The locusts began to sing. They sang loudly. And grandma kept up her
chatter. But within Missy everything seemed to become very quiet.
Suddenly she felt sad, a peculiar, serene kind of sadness. It grew
from the inside out--now and then almost escaping in a sigh. Because
it couldn't quite escape, it hurt; she envied the locusts who were
letting their sadness escape in that reiterant, tranquil song.
She was glad when, at last, grandpa said:
"How'd you like to go in and play me a tune, Missy?"
"Oh, I'd love to, grandpa!" Missy jumped up eagerly.
So grandpa lighted the parlour lamp, whose crystal bangles now
looked like enormous diamonds; and a delicious time commenced.
Grandpa got out his cloth-covered hymnal, and she played again those
hymns which mingle so inexplicably with the feelings inside you. Not
even her difficulties with the organ--such as forgetting
occasionally to treadle, or having the keys pop up soundlessly from
under her fingers--could mar that feeling.
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