down over her, and seemed to murmur with pleasure as the wind swept
them lightly to and fro. Miss Vesta said something about her bread,
and gave an uneasy glance toward the house, but she did not go in; the
window was open, and Rejoice could hear; and after all, bread was not
worth so much as "Annie Laurie." Melody folded her hands lightly on
her lap, and sang.

Dr. Brown thought "Annie Laurie" the most beautiful song in the world;
certainly it is one of the best beloved. Ever since it was first
written and sung (who knows just when that was? "Anonymous" is the
legend that stands in the song-books beside this familiar title. We do
not know the man's name, cannot visit the place where he wrote and
sang, and made music for all coming generations of English-speaking
people; can only think of him as a kind friend, a man of heart and
genius as surely as if his name stood at the head of unnumbered
symphonies and fugues),--ever since it was first sung, I say, men and
women and children have loved this song. We hear of its being sung by
camp-fires, on ships at sea, at gay parties of pleasure. Was it not at
the siege of Lucknow that it floated like a breath from home through
the city hell-beset, and brought cheer and hope and comfort to all who
heard it? The cotter's wife croons it over her sleeping baby; the
lover sings it to his sweetheart; the child runs, carolling it,
through the summer fields; finally, some world-honored prima-donna,
some Patti or Nilsson, sings it as the final touch of perfection to a
great feast of music, and hearts swell and eyes overflow to find that
the nursery song of our childhood is a world-song, immortal in
freshness and beauty. But I am apt to think that no lover, no tender
mother, no splendid Italian or noble Swede, could sing "Annie Laurie"
as Melody sang it. Sitting there in her simple cotton dress, her head
thrown slightly back, her hands folded, her eyes fixed in their