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‘Home–Home–sweet, sweet Home!’

I was almost glad that it ended before I, too, quite broke down.

“Everybody crowded round the singer with admiration of the song, and inquiries about it.

“‘I heard it at a concert in town the other day,’ he said, ‘and it struck me as pretty, so I got a copy. It is from an English opera called “Clari,” and seems the only pretty thing in it.’

“‘Do you not like it?’ Miss Jones asked me; I suppose because I had not spoken.

“‘I think it is lovely,’ I said, ‘as far as I can judge; but it carries one away from criticism; I do not think I was thinking of the music; I was thinking of Home.’

“‘Exactly.’

“It was not Miss Jones who said ‘Exactly,’ but the merchant, who was standing by her; and he said it, not in that indefinite tone of polite assent with which people commonly smile answers to each other’s remarks at evening parties, but as if he understood the words from having thought the thought. We three fell into conversation about the song–about ‘Clari’–about the opera–the theatre–about London; and then Dr. Brown, who had been educated in the great city, joined us, and finally he and Miss Jones took the London subject to themselves, and the merchant continued to talk to me. He was very pleasant company, chiefly from being so alive with intelligence that it was much less trouble to talk with him than with any one I had ever met, except my father. He required so much less than the average amount of explanation. It hardly seemed possible to use too few words for him to seize your meaning by both ends, so to speak; the root your idea sprang from, and conclusion to which it tended.

“We talked of music–of singing–of the new song, and of the subject of it–home. And so of home-love, and patriotism, and the characters of nations in which the feeling seemed to predominate.

“‘Like everything else, it depends partly on circumstances, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I sometimes envy people who have only one home–the eldest son of a landed proprietor, for instance. I fancy I have as much home-love in me as most people, but it has been divided; I have had more homes than one.’

“‘I have had more homes than one,’ I said; ‘but with me I do not think it has been divided. At least, one of the homes has been so much dearer than the others.’

“‘Do you not think so because it is the latest, and your feelings about it are freshest?’ he asked.

“I laughed. ‘A bad guess. It is not my present home. This one was near a river.’

“‘Exactly.’

“This time the ‘exactly’ did not seem so appropriate as before, and I explained further.

“‘For one thing we were there when I was at an age when attachment to a place gets most deeply rooted, I think. As a mere child one enjoys and suffers like a kitten from hour to hour. But when one is just old enough to form associations and weave dreams, and yet is still a child–it is then, I fancy, that a home gets almost bound up with one’s life.’

“He simply said ‘Yes,’ and I went on. Why, I can hardly tell, except that to talk on any subject beyond mere current chit-chit, and be understood, was a luxury we did not often taste at the tea-parties of the town.

“‘And yet I don’t know if my theory will hold good, even in our case,’ I went on, ‘for my father was quite as much devoted to the place as we were, and fell in love with it quite as early. But the foreign name was the first attraction to him, I think.’

“‘It was abroad, then?’ he asked.

“I explained, and again I can hardly tell why, but I went on talking till I had given him nearly as full a history of Reka Dom as I have given to you. For one thing he seemed amazingly interested in the recital, and drew out many particulars by questions; and then the song had filled my head with tender memories, and happy little details of old times, and it was always pleasant to prose about the River Home, as indeed, my child, it is pleasant still.