Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/126

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CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE

violin to piano, and back to violin, he sways like a mast in a storm. As I write he is singing; there are beautiful tones in his voice, and tears are on my cheeks as I listen. He comes to an unaccountable stop, and runs, dashing up the stairs, to see me.—

I am staying in my room with a headache and a kind of foolish languor. He is so kind to me that I could weep for happiness. What wife was ever so cherished as I? Listen! He sings that exquisite thing which his voice seems to have created, and for me. In point of fact I believe it is Handel's.

Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.

And now he dashes into the superb "Bedouin Love-Song" that he often chooses:

From the Desert I come to thee,
On my Arab shod with fire;
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
····
I love thee, I love but thee!
With a love that shall not die!

His voice peals through the house like a triumphal procession. Even Father has opened the library door to listen. Job is lying perfectly

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