"'How should I your true love know,
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon...'"

It was the fourth time that Felicia, at the piano, had begun the old
song. Kenelm uncurled his long legs, and sat up straight on the
window-seat.

"Why on earth so everlasting gloomy, Phil?" he said. "Isn't the rain bad
enough, without that dirge?"

"The sky's 'be-weeping' him, just the way it says," said Felicia. She
made one complete revolution on the piano-stool, and brought her strong
fingers down on the opening notes of another verse.

"'He is dead and gone, ladie,
He is dead and--'"

Kenelm sat down again in the window-seat.
He knew that Felicia was anxious about their
mother, and he himself shared her anxiety.
The queer code of fraternal secrecy made him
refrain from showing any sign of this to his
sister, however. He yawned a little, and said,
rather brusquely:

"This rain's messing up the frost pretty well. There shouldn't be much
left of it by now."