JIMMY: I like that story, Ma Rachel. It’s nice to laugh, isn’t is? Is there such a land?
RACHEL (_Softly_): What do you think, honey?
JIMMY: I thinks it would be awful nice if there was. Don’t you?
RACHEL (_Wistfully_): If there only were! If there only were!
JIMMY: It makes you think--kind of--doesn’t it--of sunshine medicine?
RACHEL: Yes, honey,--but it isn’t medicine there. It’s always there--just like--well--like our air here. It’s _always_ sunshine there.
JIMMY: You’d--never--be--afraid there, then, would you? Never afraid of nothing?
JIMMY (_With a big sigh_): Oh!--Oh! I _wisht_ it was here--not there. (_Puts his hand up to Rachel’s face; suddenly sits up and looks at her_). Why, Ma Rachel dear, you’re crying. Your face is all wet. Why! Don’t cry! Don’t cry!
RACHEL (_Gently_): Do you remember that I told you the lady at the gate had tears of joy in her eyes, when the two, dear, little boys smiled that beautiful smile?
RACHEL: Well, these are tears of joy, honey, that’s all--tears of joy.
JIMMY: It must be awful queer to have tears of joy, ’cause you’re happy. I never did. (_With a sigh_). But, if you say they are, dear Ma Rachel, they must be. You knows everything, don’t you?
RACHEL (_Sadly_): Some things, honey, some things. (_A silence_).
JIMMY (_Sighing happily_): This is the beautiful-est night I ever knew. If you would do just one more thing, it would be lots more beautiful. Will you, Ma Rachel?
JIMMY: Will you sing--at the piano, I mean, it’s lots prettier that way--the little song you used to rock me to sleep by? You know, the one about the “Slumber Boat”?
RACHEL: Oh! honey, not tonight. You’re too tired. It’s bedtime now.
JIMMY (_Patting her face with his little hand; wheedlingly_): Please! Ma Rachel, please! pretty please!
RACHEL: Well, honey boy, this once, then. Tonight, you shall have the little song--I used to sing you to sleep by (_half to herself_) perhaps, for the last time.
JIMMY: Why, Ma Rachel, why the last time?
RACHEL (_Shaking her head sadly, goes to the piano; in a whisper_): The last time. (_She twists up her hair into a knot at the back of her head and looks at the keys for a few moments; then she plays the accompaniment of the “Slumber Boat” through softly, and, after a moment, sings. Her voice is full of pent-up longing, and heartbreak, and hopelessness. She ends in a little sob, but attempts to cover it by singing, lightly and daintily, the chorus of “The Owl and the Moon.” ... Then softly and with infinite tenderness, almost against her will, she plays and sings again the refrain of the “Slumber Boat”_):