"How would a serenade do?"
"Capital!" she laughed. "Just the thing! We'll take our mandolins and
guitars into the moonlight and make things pleasant generally."
"But," said a maid with a practical turn of mind, "who is there to
serenade? There aren't any neighbours, are there?"
"Give it up!"
"Ask Mrs. Langley--she'll know," and a smiling ambassador from the
merry group, Mrs. Langley's own nephew, went to the fair-haired hostess
who sat with her husband in the library.
"Aunty, who is there in this charming spot whom we can serenade? The
girls think it would be fun, but we don't know where to find a victim
in this isolated Eden."
Mrs. Langley rose quickly, and going to the little party, told them of
old Joe and how she owed her life to those strong arms. She finished
the story with an eloquent gesture that brought tears to the eyes of
many, and added: "Go down to the old man's cabin and sing the quaint
negro melodies he loves so well--that he used to sing to me when I was
a little child. And take these roses with you; he used to love them so;
you can throw them in at the open window."
As she spoke, she took a great handful of white roses from a vase and
with a little pearl-handled knife, dextrously removed the thorns, then
handed them to her nephew.
"How do we get there, Aunty?" he asked, with something like a tremor in
his voice.
"Follow the brook," she replied. "It flows right under his window, and
you cannot miss the place. I'd go with you, only I can't sing, and
wouldn't be of any use." She smiled brightly at them as they went down
among the shadows, then to the tiny brook that seemed like a musical
stream of silver in the moonlight.
The party was strangely silent for one bound for a "lark," and by much
crossing of the little stream that wound its tortuous way through the
grounds, they came to Uncle Joe's tiny cabin in an unseen nook of the
plantation. They grouped themselves under the window in silence.
"Now then!" whispered one of them. The mandolins and guitars played the
opening strains of the sweet old melody, then their fresh young voices
rose high and clear:
[Illustration (music):
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home,
]
The old grey head turned feebly on its hard pillow, and Sally stirred
restlessly.
[Illustration (music):
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home.
]
Above the song of the brook that seemed like a tender accompaniment to
the tinkle of the mandolins the music rose, and old Joe woke from his
dream of pain.
[Illustration (music):
I looked o-ver Jordan and what did I see
Com-ing for to car-ry me home? A
]
[Illustration (music):
band of an-gels com-ing aft-er me,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home.
]
Oh, light of the angels! Oh, rapture of the song! The familiar words
brought back so much to the old man's listening soul!
[Illustration (music):
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home,
]
The fragrant shower fell around him. He grasped a great white rose that
was within reach of his hand and pressed it to his parched lips.
[Illustration (music):
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home.
]
Out of the clouds was the chariot coming for _him_? Yes--wrapt in
celestial glory.
[Illustration (music):
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot.
]
The song died away, and the singers heard no sound within.
But the tired head fell back upon its pillow with a sigh of infinite
content, the chariot came, and Uncle Joe forgot the "misery" and the
roses alike in passing from supreme shadow to supreme dawn.