"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. A sort of intoxication came into my heart. When Preston would have wound up the box again, I stopped him. I was full of the delight. I could not hear any more just then.
"Why, Daisy, there are ever so many more tunes."
"Yes. I am glad. I will have them another time," I answered. "How very kind of mamma!"