utterances have sunk to ghostly whispers in a corner.

Once the wandering hands stopped and a voice was heard. It sounded as
though pitched to reach some one in an inner room farther away, possibly
a person who might just have passed from a kitchen to a bedroom to make
some change of dress. It was a very affectionate voice, very true and
sweet, very tender, very endearing.

"Another string snapped to-day. There's another key silent. There won't
be any but silent keys soon."

There must have been a reply. Responding to it, the voice at the piano
sounded again, this time very loyal and devoted to an object closer at
hand:

"But when we do get a better one, we won't kick the old one down-stairs.
It has done _its_ best."

Whereupon the musical ancestor was encouraged to speak up again while he
had a chance, being a very honored ancestor and not by any means dead in
some regions. Soon, however, the voice pleaded anew with a kind of
patient impatience:

"I'm awfully hungry. Aren't you nearly ready?"

The reply could not be heard.

"Are you putting on the dress _I_ like?"

The reply was not heard.