Then she strayed into a
"valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown
composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the
first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope
she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular
songs," thought Quincy.
As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but
a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure,
sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach
and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.
Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened
it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.
Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English
soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie
Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining
in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter,
no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could
do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would
have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.
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