With a laugh that was half a sob of joy, she sat down, her
fingers readily finding the one thing that suited her mood.
The wild, half-savage music rang through the house in full, deep chords,
but only Rose knew the words, which, in her mind, fitted themselves to
the melody as though she dared to sing them:
"Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,
Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less then these.
"Less than the weed that grows beside thy door,
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me;
Even less am I."
Upstairs, Isabel yawned lazily, and wondered why Rose should play so
loud, but Aunt Francesca smiled to herself, for she knew that Allison
was better and that Rose was glad.
XIX
OVER THE BAR
As a flower may bloom in a night, joy returned to Madame Bernard's house
after long absence. There was no outward sign, for Rose was still quiet
and self-controlled, but her face was a shade less pale and there was a
tremulous music in her voice.
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