The
sound seemed to come from behind the wall of the house near which I was
sitting, and it was repeated from time to time during the whole of the
afternoon.
At length, as the afternoon went on, I began to distinguish what tunes
were being attempted. I made out a bar or two of the old French
Republican air, 'The Marseillaise,' and then I was almost startled by
what came next, for it was a tune I had known well since I was a very
little child. It was 'Home, Sweet Home,' and that was my mother's
favourite tune; in fact, I never heard it without thinking of her. Many
and many a time had she sung me to sleep with that tune. I had scarlet
fever when I was five years old, and my mother had nursed me through it,
and when I was weary and fretful she would sing to me--my pretty
fair-haired mother. Even as I sat before my easel I could see her, as
she sat at the foot of my bed, with the sunshine streaming upon her
through the half-darkened window, and making her look, to my boyish
imagination, like a beautiful angel. And I could hear her voice still;
and the sweet tones in which she sang that very song to me, 'Home, sweet
home, there's no place like home.
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