All at once we stood
silent and motionless, for Diana was singing.
It was an Italian love song full of sweet rippling notes and trills
but, as she sang it, a very ecstasy of yearning tenderness that
changed suddenly to joy and rapturous happiness, her glorious voice
ringing out full-throated, rich and clear, inexpressibly sweet,
swelling louder and louder until suddenly it was gone and we standing
mute with awed delight.
"She's a-doin' her hair!" whispered Jerry. "She allus used to sing in
the morning a-doin' her hair, I mind, but never--ah, never
so--wonderfully!"
And then she began again, this time that Zingari air we both
remembered so well. Singing thus, she stepped out into the sunlight
but, seeing us, stopped in the middle of a note and ran forward (even
as I had done) with both hands outstretched in greeting.
"Jerry!" she cried. "My dear, good Jerry!"
But the Tinker drew back, a little abashed by the wondrous change in
her.
"Why, Ann--why, Anna!" he stammered. "Can this be you--so--so
beautiful? Speaks different too!"
"O Jerry dear--won't you kiss me?"
"Glory be!" he exclaimed, taking her outstretched hands. "Though so
very different 'tis the same sweet maid--'tis the very same Ann as
learned to read an' write s' wonderful quick--Glory be!" And so they
kissed each other.
Then walking between us, busy with question and answer, he brought us
where stood his weather-beaten, four-wheeled chaise with Diogenes,
that equine philosopher, cropping the grass as sedulously as though he
had never left off and who, lifting shaggy head, snorted unimpassioned
greeting and promptly began to nibble again.
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