"
"It's my husband you are to hear sing," said Azalea contentedly. "He has
a splendid voice."
"I shall be delighted," I agreed; "but surely you will sing too."
"My voice seems to wake up the children," said she, "Arthur's never
does. It's odd, for his voice is much heavier, of course. But I can
never take really high notes without hearing a wail from either Bud or
Dot. And that's not worth while."
"Won't you sing now, then," I begged, "while they are awake? I really
can't go away without hearing you. And you know when the Philosopher
comes he will be so anxious to have you sing."
"The babies will go to bed before dinner," she insisted, "so I can't
very well sing for the Philosopher. But I'll sing for you now, of
course."
She laid little Dot in my lap, but Dot was already sleepy and protested.
So Azalea went to the piano with Dot on her arm. Bud, seeing her go,
followed and stood by her knee--on her trailing skirts. I don't know how
she managed to play her own accompaniment, but she did--at least subdued
chords enough to carry the harmony of the song.
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