Binding feet and hands and almost my
breath, as I stood hushed and listening to the liquid warbling
of delicious things, until the melody had run itself out. It
was a melody unknown to me; wild and dainty; it came out of a
famous opera I was told afterward. When the fairy notes sunk
into silence, I turned mutely towards Preston. Preston
laughed.
"I declare!" he said, — "I declare! Hurra! you have got colour
in your cheeks, Daisy; absolutely, my little Daisy! there is a
real streak of pink there where it was so white before."
"_What_ is it?" said I.
"Just a little good blood coming up under the skin."
"Oh, no, Preston — _this_; what is it?"
"A musical box."
"But where does the music come from?"
"Out of the box. See, Daisy; when it has done a tune and is
run out, you must wind it up, so, — like a watch."
He wound it up and set it on the table again. And again a
melody came forth, and this time it was different; not
plaintive and thoughtful, but jocund and glad; a little shout
and ring of merriment, like the feet of dancers scattering the
drops of dew in a bright morning; or like the chime of a
thousand little silver bells rung for laughter.
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