putting flowers on the
table in the dining-room, lighting a special reading-lamp at a table in
the corner of the living-room, and pulling an easy chair to stand close
beside it. There was a small grand piano in the room. It had been closed
all day, for Bud's fingers could just reach the keyboard. Azalea opened
it.

"You haven't had time to-day," said I, "but I'm looking forward to
hearing you sing this evening."

"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. There were no notes
before her on the rack, and she looked down into one or the other of the
two small faces as she sang. And, of course, it was a lullaby which
fell like notes of pearl and silver from her lips.

When she finished, I could only smile at her through an obscuring mist.
Never, in all the times I had heard her sing, had she reached my heart
like this. But, somehow, the picture of her, sitting in the half light
at the grand piano, with the babies in her arms and at her knee, singing
lullabies and leaving the fine music for her husband to sing by and by,
was quite irresistible. Somehow, as I listened, I was troubled by no
doubts lest she had not learned deftly to wipe ten teaspoons at once.

Her husband came home presently; a tall, thin, young bank cashier, with
a face I liked at once. He was plainly weary, but his eyes lit up with
satisfaction at sight of the three who met him at the door, and the
welcome his young son gave him showed tha