At length, we reached the cottage-door: But, when I stopped, and turned to go, His words came falteringly and slow: If I would step inside, and rest, I’d be right welcome: not a guest Had crossed his threshold, thirty year... He’d naught but bread and cheese and beer To offer me ... but, I’d know best... He spoke with hand upon the latch; And, when I answered, opened wide The cottage-door; and stepped inside; And, as I followed, struck a match, And lit a tallow-dip: and stirred The banked-up peats into a glow: And then with shuffling step and slow He moved about: and soon had set Two mugs of beer, and bread and cheese: And while we made a meal off these, The old man never spoke a word; But, brooding in the ingle-seat, With eyes upon the kindling peat, He seemed awhile to quite forget He was not sitting by himself To-night, like any other night; When, as, in the dim candle-light, I glanced around me, with surprise I saw, upon the rafter-shelf, A flute, nigh hidden in the shade. And when I asked him if he played, The light came back into his eyes: Aye, aye, he sometimes piped a bit, But not so often since she died. And then, as though old memories lit His poor, old heart, and made it glad, He told how he, when quite a lad, Had taught himself: and they would play On penny whistles all the day-- He and the miller’s son, beside The millpool, chirping all they knew, Till they could whistle clean and true: And how, when old enough to earn, They both saved up to buy a flute; And they had played it, turn for turn: But, Jake was dead, this long while back... Ah! if I’d only heard him toot, I’d know what music meant. Aye, aye... He’d play me something, by-and-bye; Though he was naught to Jake ... and now His breath was scant, and fingering slack... He used to play to her at night The melodies that she liked best, While she worked on: she’d never rest By daylight, or by candle-light... And then, with hand upon his brow, He brooded, quiet in his chair, With eyes upon the red peat-glare; Until, at length, he roused himself, And reached the flute down from the shelf; And, carrying it outside the door, I saw him take a can, and pour Fresh water through the instrument, To make it sweet of tone, he said. Then, in his seat, so old and bent, With kindling eyes, and swaying head, He played the airs he used to play To please his wife, before she died: And as I watched his body sway In time and tune, from side to side, So happy, playing, and to please With old familiar melodies, His eyes grew brighter and more bright, As though they saw some well-loved sight: And, following his happy gaze, I turned, and saw, without amaze, A woman standing, young and fair,