Bolts were shot, keys turned; from
the lighted front parlour came the notes of the sweet-toned square
piano, and Ailsa's voice:
--"Dear are her charms to me,
Dearest her constancy,
Aileen aroon--"
"Never mind any more of that silly song!" exclaimed Celia,
imprisoning Ailsa's arms from behind.
"Youth must with time decay,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty must fade away,
Aileen aroon--"
"Don't, dear! please----"
But Ailsa sang on obstinately:
"Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Aileen aroon."
And, glancing back over her shoulder, caught her breath quickly.
"Celia! What _is_ the matter, dear?"
"Nothing. I don't like such songs--just now----"
"What songs?"
"I don't know, Ailsa; songs about war and castles. Little things
plague me. . . . There's been altogether too much talk about
war--it gets into ev'ything, somehow. I can't seem to he'p it,
somehow----"
"Why, Celia! _You_ are not worrying?"
"Not fo' myse'f, Honey-bud. Somehow, to-night--I don't know--and
Curt seemed a little anxious."
She laughed with an effort; her natural gaiety returned to buoy her
above this indefinable undercurrent of unrest.
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