But she could not lift
him up, though she bent every energy to the task, and at last,
passing one arm beneath his neck she managed to sit behind him,
holding him in such a position that he rested easier, and his
convulsive movements ceased entirely. With his head upon her bosom
she rocked to and fro, uttering a low, cooing sound, as if
soothing him to sleep.
"Sing, Nina, sing," he whispered, and on the night air a mournful
cadence rose, swelling sometimes so high that Edith moved uneasily
upon her pillow, while even Phillis stretched out a hand as if
about to awaken.
Then the music changed to a plaintive German song, and Edith
dreamed of Bingen on the Rhine, while Dr. Griswold listened
eagerly, whispering at intervals,
"Precious Nina, blessed dove, sing on--sing till I am at rest."
This was sufficient for Nina, and one after another she warbled
the wild songs she knew he loved the best, while the lamps upon
the table and the candles upon the floor flickered and flamed and
cast their light far out into the yard, where the August rain was
falling, and where more than one bird, startled from its slumbers,
looked up to see whence came the fitful glare, wondering, it may
be, at the solemn dirge, floating out into the darkness far beyond
the light.
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