It was a very affectionate voice, very true and
sweet, very tender, very endearing.
"Another string snapped to-day. There's another key silent. There won't
be any but silent keys soon."
There must have been a reply. Responding to it, the voice at the piano
sounded again, this time very loyal and devoted to an object closer at
hand:
"But when we do get a better one, we won't kick the old one down-stairs.
It has done _its_ best."
Whereupon the musical ancestor was encouraged to speak up again while he
had a chance, being a very honored ancestor and not by any means dead in
some regions. Soon, however, the voice pleaded anew with a kind of
patient impatience:
"I'm awfully hungry. Aren't you nearly ready?"
The reply could not be heard.
"Are you putting on the dress _I_ like?"
The reply was not heard.
"Don't you want me to bring you a daffodil to wear at your throat?"
The reply was lost. For a few minutes the progenitor emptied his ancient
lungs of some further moribund intimations of tone. Later came another
protest, truly plaintive:
"You couldn't look any nicer! I'm awfully hungry!"
Then all at once there was a tremendous smash on the keys, a joyous
smash, and a moment afterward the door was softly opened.
Mother and son entered the supper-room.
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