The Rainbow

"We'd better leave 'em alone," said Alfred Brangwen.

"Nay, nay," said Tom. "We'll carol 'em, for th' last

time."

And in a quarter of an hour's time, eleven silent, rather

tipsy men scrambled over the wall, and into the garden by the

yew trees, outside the windows where faint firelight glowered on

the blinds. There came a shrill sound, two violins and a piccolo

shrilling on the frosty air.

"In the fields with their flocks abiding." A commotion of

men's voices broke out singing in ragged unison.

Anna Brangwen had started up, listening, when the music

began. She was afraid.

"It's the wake," he whispered.

She remained tense, her heart beating heavily, possessed with

strange, strong fear. Then there came the burst of men's

singing, rather uneven. She strained still, listening.

"It's Dad," she said, in a low voice. They were silent,

listening.

"And my father," he said.

She listened still. But she was sure. She sank down again

into bed, into his arms. He held her very close, kissing her.

The hymn rambled on outside, all the men singing their best,

having forgotten everything else under the spell of the fiddles

and the tune. The firelight glowed against the darkness in the

room. Anna could hear her father singing with gusto.

"Aren't they silly," she whispered.

And they crept closer, closer together, hearts beating to one

another. And even as the hymn rolled on, they ceased to hear

it.