Page:Pratt portraits - sketched in a New England suburb (IA prattportraitssk00full).pdf/91

 the sweetest song, very, very softly, and strangely enough, the words were the old familiar ones:

Robbie stirred in his sleep, and murmured, "Mamma," and she slipped her arm under his head, and he nestled down against her, and she went on singing, singing:

—not quite so softly now.

Anson, sitting down-stairs by himself, with the crocuses beside him, heard the song, and a sudden, superstitious thrill went through him. He dropped his paper, and stole to the foot of the stairs, and the sweet voice, crooning more softly again, just reached his ear.

"Emmeline!" he cried, and bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time. There was no light in the nursery, where he could only discern a shadowy figure kneeling by the bed. "Emmeline!" he whispered, "Emmeline!"

"Sh, Anson! Don't wake the children."

He leaned down and tried to lift her up, but, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see little Robbie's head against her breast.

"Emmeline! Emmeline! When did you come home?"

"I've been here all the time," she said, with