And, oddly, all that sheen and stir,
all that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself--just
as if her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard.
And with Missy, to play "The Angel's Serenade" was to crave playing
more such divine pieces; she drifted on into "Traumerei"; "Simple
Confession"; "One Sweetly Solemn Thought," with variations. She
played them all with extra "expression," putting all her loving
sympathy for Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have
been soothed by it, for he dozed off, and came to with a start when
she finally paused, to tell her how beautifully she played.
Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was
like grandpa--the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep,
unusual things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the
pieces she'd played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was
reading nowadays.
"This is your book, isn't it?" he enquired, picking up "The Romances
of King Arthur" from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of
her to have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for
her to do, save to act in a natural, casual manner.
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