They had thus secured the prize for which
they had gone so many thousands of miles and had toiled for so many
years, but they were certainly not happy. Poor Mr. Blake, cut off from
his fellow-creatures by that wall that stood before him, had found
companionship in the bottle, and was seen less and less of by his
neighbours; and when his wife came to us to spend two or three days
"for a change," although her home was only a couple of hours' ride
away, the reason probably was that her husband was in one of his bouts
and had made the place intolerable to her. I remember that she always
came to us with a sad, depressed look on her face, but after a few
hours she would recover her spirits and grow quite cheerful and
talkative. And of an evening when there was music she would sometimes
consent, after some persuasion, to give the company a song. That was a
joy to us youngsters, as she had a thin cracked voice that always at
the high notes went off into a falsetto. Her favourite air was "Home,
sweet Home," and her rendering in her wailing cracked voice was as
great a feast to us as the strange laugh of our grotesque neighbour
Gandara.
And that is all I can say about her. But now when I remember that
episode of the snake in the orchard, she looks to me not unbeautiful
in memory, and her voice in the choir invisible sounds sweet enough.
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