At last, one day, I lost all my temper, and went raging to my mother, and said Sandy had been singing for an hour without a single break, and I couldn't stand it, and _wouldn't_ she please shut him up.

The tears came into her eyes, and her lip trembled, and she said something like this-- "Poor thing, when he sings, it shows that he is not remembering, and that comforts me; but when he is still, I am afraid he is thinking, and I cannot bear it.

He will never see his mother again; if he can sing, I must not hinder it, but be thankful for it.

If you were older, you would understand me; then that friendless child's noise would make you glad." It was a simple speech, and made up of small words, but it went home, and Sandy's noise was not a trouble to me any more.

She never used large words, but she had a natural gift for making small ones do effective work.