“No, no, dearest Sissy,” I exclaimed, reaching out a hand. “Please return it forthwith. Though my present occupation might appear, to your innocent eyes, to be little more than a mere pastime, I am, in fact, engaged in amatter of the gravest urgency, relating to the circumstances of which I have already apprised you.” Over dinner, I had recounted to both Sissy and Muddy the dramatic events of the day—omitting only those gruesome details whose recitation would have achieved no other effect than to unsettle the tender sensibilities of my dear ones.

My appeal, however, made little impression on the darling child. “Come and get it, if you want it!” she squealed, backing away from me with the sheet concealed behind her.

“Please, Sissy,” I implored. “Under ordinary circumstances, I would eagerly welcome this diversion. But it has been a most difficult, most fatiguing day for your poor Eddie. My present state of nervous debility does not permit me to enter into the frolicsome spirit of your proposal.”

The fervency of this plea could not be resisted. Forming her lips into a charming little pout, she took several steps forward and thrust the paper at me. “Here. Take it. You’re no fun at all!” she exclaimed, stamping one foot on the floor in the most captivating manner imaginable.

I placed one hand over my eyes. “Do not chastise me so, Sissy,” I sighed. “I am already sorely taxed with weariness and frustration.”

Her voice suddenly brightening, the darling maiden cried out, “Want me to sing you a song?”

It was evident that my undertaking would have to be postponed for an indefinite period. “Yes” I said with a relenting smile. “I would enjoy that very much.”

“Goody!” she cried, clapping her hands excitedly. “You just sit there and shut your eyes and I will sing you one of your favorites. Guess which!”

I spent a moment in silent rumination before venturing, “‘The Hangman’s Tree’?”

“Uh-uh” she replied.

“’The Unquiet Grave’?”

“No.”

“’Barbara Allen’?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. Then—as I settled back in my seat with my eyelids shuttered—she cleared her throat and began to trill, in a voice whose surpassing beauty might have induced envious pangs in a seraph:

“In Scarlet Town where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwelling,
Made every youth cry ‘Well a-day,’
And her name was Barb’ra Allen.

“’Twas in the merry month of May,
All the flowers blooming,
Young William Grove on his deathbed lay
For the love of Barb’ra Allen.

“He sent a servant unto her
In the town where she was dwelling.
‘Come, Miss, O Miss to my master dying
If your name be Barb’ra Allen!’

“Slowly, slowly she got up,
And to his bedside going,
She drew the curtain to one side
And said, ‘Young man, you’re dying.’