The embroideries were on the wall beyond the
piano, so that she could see them while she played. Uncle Charlie
wasn't in her range of vision unless she turned her head; but she
could smell his cigar, and could sense him sitting there very quiet
in a big wicker chair, smoking, his eyes half closed, his bandaged
foot stretched out on a little stool.
And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus,
and her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the
embroideries, and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all
seemed to intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to
play the piano. When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her
feelings in dreamy melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer
minor cadences thrown in--the kind of music you can play "with
expression," while you vision mysterious, poetic pictures.
After a moment's reflection, she decided on "The Angel's Serenade";
she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something
brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she
could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the
silvery sheen of them astir.
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