"
The Cashier patted her shoulders. "Now you sing some soft little thing
for them, my girl," he commanded--and looking up at him again, Azalea
obeyed. She chose an old ballad, one with no chance in it to show the
range of her voice. She sang it exquisitely, and the Cashier stood by
and turned her music as if he considered it a high privilege. Yet,
half-way through, the little Dot woke up. Azalea broke off in the middle
of a bar, and fled up the stairs.
"The truth is, I'm afraid," said the Cashier, looking after her with an
expression on his face which indicated that he wanted to flee, too,
"nothing really counts in this house but the babies."
"They--and something else," suggested the Philosopher gently.
The Cashier looked at him. He nodded. "Yes--and something else," he
agreed with his bright smile.
We came away rather late. The Philosopher looked up at the house as the
door closed upon the warm farewells which had sent us out into the
night. "It's a little bit of a house, isn't it?" he commented.
I looked up, too--at the nursery windows where the faintest of
night-lights showed.
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