you were quiet and sat beside her on the footstool, learning to knit and
sew. On Sunday afternoons when she played the hymns and you sang:

"There's a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky,"

quite horribly out of tune, and when you listened while she sang herself,
"Lead, kindly light," or "Abide with me," and her voice was so sweet and
gentle that it made you cry. Then you knew.

Sometimes, when it was not Sunday, she played the Hungarian March, that
went, with loud, noble noises:

Droom--Droom--Droom-era-room
Droom--Droom--Droom-era-room
Droom rer-room-room droom-room-room
Droom--Droom--Droom.

It was wonderful. Mamma was wonderful. She swayed and bowed to the beat
of the music, as if she shook it out of her body and not out of the
piano. She smiled to herself when she saw that you were listening. You
said "Oh--Mamma! Play it again," and she played it again. When she had
finished she stooped suddenly and kissed you. And you knew.

But she wouldn't say it. You couldn't make her.

"Say it, Mamma. Say it like you used to."

Mamma shook her head.