He tried again; and this time he sang the words of the first verse, as
he played. His really fine baritone blended well with the richness of
the silver strings.
The words had occasionally to wait, suspended as it were in mid-air,
while he felt about wildly for the note on the 'cello; but, once found,
the note was true and good, and likely to lead more or less easily to
the next.
A listener, in the corridor outside, pressed her hands to her breast,
uncertain whether she felt the more inclined to laugh or to weep.
Ronnie began his verse again.
"O come ... all ye ... faithful ...
joyful and tri ... tri ... tri ... _um_
... phant ... O come, ye, O come ye,
to Beth ... Beth ... Beth ...
Be--eth--le--_hem!_"
He paused, exhausted by the effort of drawing Bethlehem complete, out of
the complication of the Infant's four vibrating strings.
He paused, and, lifting his eyes, looked into the mirror--and saw
therein the face of a woman, watching him from beside the door; a lovely
face, all smiles, and tears, and tenderness.
At first he gazed, unable to believe his eyes. But, when her eyes met
his, and she knew that he saw her, she moved quickly forward, kneeled
down beside him, and--it was the face of his wife, all flooded with glad
tenderness, which, resting against his shoulder, looked up into his.
She had spoken no word; yet at the first sight of her Ronnie knew that
the cloud which had been between them, was between no longer.
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